E.Neshl 


'■iiitiiift 


pp.  R.  MATTERrPj 

JAft/IAIcVpLAIN!'MASS.  \ 


THE   LITERARY   SENSE 


^^rt^^ 


THE    LITERARY    SENSE 


BY 
E.    NESBIT 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  BED  HOUSE  "  AND  *'  THE  WOULD-BE-GOODS 


THE   MACMILLAK   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1903 

All  rights  reserved 


COPTKIGHT,  1903, 

By  the  ma  cm  ill  an  COMPANY. 


Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  published  September,  1903. 


Norfa)oo»  iPrcss 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 

DOROTHEA    DEAKIN 

WITH 

THE  AUTHOR'S  LOVE 


MlH'dG''' " 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Unfaithful  Lover 1 

Rounding  off  a  Scene 13 

The  Obvious 29 

The  Lie  Absolute 49 

The  Girl  with  the  Guitar 65 

The  Man  with  the  Boots 79 

The  Second  Best 91 

The  Holiday 105 

The  Force  of  Habit 123 

The  Brute 147 

Dick,  Tom,  and  Harry 165 

Miss  Eden's  Baby 187 

The  Lover,  the  Girl,  and  the  Onlooker         .        .  209 

The  Duel 229 

Cinderella 253 

With  an  E 275 

LTnder  the  New  Moon 299 

The  Love  of  Romance 309 


vu 


THE  LITERARY  SENSE 


THE   UNFAITHFUL   LOVER 

SHE  was  going  to  meet  her  lover.  And  the 
fact  that  she  was  to  meet  him  at  Cannon 
Street  Station  would  almost,  she  feared,  make 
the  meeting  itself  banal,  sordid.  She  would 
have  liked  to  meet  him  in  some  green,  cool 
orchard,  where  daffodils  swung  in  the  long  grass, 
and  primroses  stood  on  frail  stiff  little  pink 
stalks  in  the  wet,  scented  moss  of  the  hedgerow. 
The  time  should  have  been  May.  She  herself 
should  have  been  a  poem  —  a  lyric  in  a  white 
gown  and  green  scarf,  coming  to  him  through 
the  long  grass  under  the  blossomed  boughs.  Her 
hands  should  have  been  full  of  bluebells,  and  she 
should  have  held  them  up  to  his  face  in  maidenly 
defence  as  he  sprang  forward  to  take  her  in  his 
arms.  You  see  that  she  knew  exactly  how  a 
tryst  is  conducted  in  the  pages  of  the  standard 

B  1 


2  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

poets  and  of  the  cheaper  weekly  journals.  She 
had,  to  the  full  Umit  allowed  of  her  reading  and 
her  environment,  the  literary  sense.  When  she 
was  a  child  she  never  could  cry  long,  because  she 
always  wanted  to  see  herself  cry,  in  the  glass, 
and  then  of  course  the  tears  always  stopped. 
Now  that  she  was  a  young  woman  she  could 
never  be  happy  long,  because  she  wanted  to 
watch  her  heart's  happiness,  and  it  used  to  stop 
then,  just  as  the  tears  had. 

He  had  asked  her  to  meet  him  at  Cannon  Street ; 
he  had  something  to  say  to  her,  and  at  home  it 
was  difficult  to  get  a  quiet  half-hour  because  of 
her  little  sisters.  And,  curiously  enough,  she 
was  hardly  curious  at  all  about  what  he  might 
have  to  say.  She  only  wished  for  May  and  the 
orchard,  instead  of  January  and  the  dingy,  dusty 
waiting-room,  the  plain-faced,  preoccupied  trav- 
ellers, the  dim,  desolate  weather.  The  setting 
of  the  scene  seemed  to  her  all-important.  Her 
dress  was  brown,  her  jacket  black,  and  her  hat 
was  home-trimmed.  Yet  she  looked  entranc- 
ingly  pretty  to  him  as  he  came  through  the 
heavy  swing-doors.  He  would  hardly  have 
known    her  in  green  and  white  muslin  and  an 


THE   UNFAITHFUL   LOVER  3 

orchard,  for  their  love  had  been  born  and  bred 
in  town  —  Highbury  New  Park,  to  be  exact. 
He  came  towards  her  ;  he  was  five  minutes  late. 
She  had  grown  anxious,  as  the  one  who  waits 
always  does,  and  she  was  extremely  glad  to  see 
him,  but  she  knew  that  a  late  lover  should  be 
treated  with  a  provoking  coldness  (one  can 
relent  prettily  later  on),  so  she  gave  him  a  limp 
hand  and  no  greeting. 

"  Let's  go  out,"  he  said.  "  Shall  we  walk 
along  the  Embankment,  or  go  somewhere  on 
the  Underground  ?  " 

It  was  bitterly  cold,  but  the  Embankment 
was  more  romantic  than  a  railway  carriage. 
He  ought  to  insist  on  the  railway  carriage :  he 
probably  would.     So  she  said  — 

"  Oh,  the  Embankment,  please ! "  and  felt  a 
sting  of  annoyance  and  disappointment  when  he 
acquiesced. 

They  did  not  speak  again  till  they  had  gone 
through  the  little  back  streets,  past  the  police 
station  and  the  mustard  factory,  and  were  on 
the  broad    pavement  of    Queen  Victoria  Street. 

He  had  been  late :  he  had  offered  no  excuse, 
no  explanation.     She  had  done  the  proper  thing ; 


4  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

she  had  awaited  these  with  dignified  reserve, 
and  now  she  was  involved  in  the  meshes  of  a 
silence  that  she  could  not  break.  How  easy  it 
would  have  been  in  the  orchard !  She  could 
have  snapped  off  a  blossoming  branch  and  — 
and  made  play  with  it  somehow^  Then  he 
would  have  had  to  say  something.  But  here  — 
the  only  thing  that  occurred  to  her  was  to  stop 
and  look  in  one  of  the  shops  till  he  should  ask 
her  what  she  was  looking  at.  And  how  com- 
mon and  mean  that  would  be  compared  with 
the  blossoming  bough ;  and  besides,  the  shops 
they  were  passing  had  nothing  in  the  windows 
except  cheap  pastry  and  models  of  steam-engines. 

Why  on  earth  didn't  he  speak  ?  He  had  never 
been  like  this  before.  She  stole  a  glance  at  him, 
and  for  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  her  that  his 
"  something  to  sa}^ "  was  not  a  mere  excuse  for 
being  alone  with  her.  He  had  something  to  say 
—  something  that  was  trying  to  get  itself  said. 
The  keen  wind  thrust  itself  even  inside  the  high 
collar  of  her  jacket.  Her  hands  and  feet  were 
aching  with  cold.  How  warm  it  would  have 
been  in  the  orchard ! 

"  I'm  freezing,"  she  said  suddenly  ;  "  let's  go 
and  have  some  tea." 


THE  UNFAITHFUL   LOVER  5 

"  Of  course,  if  you  like,"  he  said  uncom- 
fortably ;  yet  she  could  see  he  was  glad  that 
she  had  broken  that  desolate  silence. 

Seated  at  a  marble  table  —  the  place  was 
nearly  empty  —  she  furtively  watched  his  face 
in  the  glass,  and  what  she  saw  there  thrilled 
her.  Some  great  sorrow  had  come  to  him. 
And  she  had  been  sulking !  The  girl  in  the 
orchard  would  have  known  at  a  glance.  She 
would  gently,  tenderly,  with  infinite  delicacy 
and  the  fine  tact  of  a  noble  woman,  have  drawn 
his  secret  from  him.  She  would  have  shared  his 
sorrow,  and  shown  herself  "  half  wife,  half  angel 
from  heaven  "  in  this  dark  hour.  Well,  it  was 
not  too  late.  She  could  begin  now.  But  how  ? 
He  had  ordered  the  tea,  and  her  question  was 
still  unanswered.  Yet  she  must  speak.  When 
she  did  her  words  did  not  fit  the  mouth  of  the 
girl  in  the  orchard  —  but  then  it  would  have 
been  May  there,  and  this  was  January.  She 
said  — 

"  How  frightfully  cold  it  is  !  " 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said. 

The  fine  tact  of  a  noble  woman  seemed  to 
have  deserted  her.     She  resisted  a  little  impulse 


6  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

to  put  her  hand  in  his  under  the  marble  table, 
and  to  say,  "  What  is  it,  dearest  ?  Tell  me  all 
about  it.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  looking  so 
miserable,"  and  there  was  another  silence. 

The  waitress  brought  the  two  thick  cups  of 
tea,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  tepid  curiosity. 
As  soon  as  the  two  were  alone  again  he  leaned 
his  elbows  on  the  marble  and  spoke. 

"  Look  here,  darling,  I've  got  something  to  tell 
you,  and  I  hope  to  God  you'll  forgive  me  and 
stand  by  me,  and  try  to  understand  that  I  love 
you  just  the  same,  and  whatever  happens  I  shall 
always  love  you." 

This  preamble  sent  a  shiver  of  dread  down 
her  spine.  What  had  he  done  —  a  murder  —  a 
bank  robbery  —  married  someone  else  ? 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say  that 
she  would  stand  by  him  whatever  he  had  done ; 
but  if  he  had  married  someone  else  this  would 
be  improper,  so  she  only  said,  "  Well  ?  "  and  she 
said  it  coldly. 

"  Well  —  I  went  to  the  Simpsons'  dance  on 
Tuesday  —  oh,  why  weren't  you  there,  Ethel  ?  — 
and  there  was  a  girl  in  pink,  and  I  danced  three 
or  four  times  with  her  —  she  was    rather    like 


THE   UNFAITHFUL   LOVER  7 

you,  side-face  —  and  then,  after  supper,  in  the 
conservatory,  I  —  I  talked  nonsense  —  but  only 
a  very  little,  dear  —  and  she  kept  looking  at  me 
so  —  as  if  she  expected  me  to  —  to  —  and  so  I 
kissed  her.  And  yesterday  I  had  a  letter  from 
her,  and  she  seems  to  expect  —  to  think  —  and 
I  thought  I  ought  to  tell  you,  darling.  Oh, 
Ethel,  do  try  to  forgive  me!  I  haven't  answered 
her  letter." 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"  That's  all,"  said  he,  miserably  stirring  his  tea. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  A  shock  of  un- 
believable relief  tingled  through  her.  So  that 
was  all  !  What  was  it,  compared  with  her 
fears  ?  She  almost  said,  "  Never  mind,  dear.  It 
was  hateful  of  you,  and  I  wish  you  hadn't,  but 
I  know  you're  sorry,  and  I'm  sorry  ;  but  I  for- 
give you,  and  we'll  forget  it,  and  you'll  never  do 
it  again."  But  just  in  time  she  remembered  that 
nice  girls  must  not  take  these  things  too  lightly. 
What  opinion  would  he  form  of  the  purity  of 
her  mind,  the  innocence  of  her  soul,  if  an  inci- 
dent like  this  failed  to  shock  her  deeply?  He 
himself  was  evidently  a  prey  to  the  most  rend- 
ing remorse.     He  had  told  her  of  the  thing  as 


8  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

one  tells  of  a  crime.  As  the  confession  of  a 
crime  she  must  receive  it.  How  should  she 
know  that  he  had  only  told  her  because  he 
feared  that  she  would  anyhow  hear  it  through 
the  indiscretion  of  the  girl  in  pink,  or  of  that 
other  girl  in  blue  who  had  seen  and  smiled  ? 
How  could  she  guess  that  he  had  tuned  his  con- 
fession to  the  key  of  what  he  believed  would  be 
an  innocent  girl's  estimate  of  his  misconduct  ? 

Following  the  tingle  of  relief  came  a  sharp, 
sickening  pinch  of  jealousy  and  mortification. 
These  inspired  her. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  were  afraid  to  tell  me," 
she  began.  "  You  don't  love  me  —  you've  never 
loved  me  —  I  was  an  idiot  to  believe  you  did." 

"  You  know  I  do,"  he  said  ;  "  it  was  hateful  of 
me  —  but  I  couldn't  help  it." 

Those  four  true  words  wounded  her  more  than 
all  the  rest. 

"  Couldn't  help  it  ?  Then  how  can  I  ever 
trust  you  ?  Even  if  we  were  married  I  could 
never  be  sure  you  weren't  kissing  some  horrid 
girl  or  other.  No  —  it's  no  use  —  I  can  never, 
never  forgive  you  — and  it's  all  over.  And  I 
believed  in  you  so,  and  trusted  you  —  I  thought 
you  were  the  soul  of  honour." 


THE   UNFAITHFUL   LOVER  9 

He  could  not  say,  "  And  so  I  am,  on  the 
whole,"  which  was  what  he  thought.  Her  tears 
were  falling  hot  and  fast  between  face  and  veil, 
for  she  had  talked  till  she  was  very  sorry  indeed 
for  herself. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  he  said. 

Then  she  rose  to  the  occasion.  "  Never," 
she  said,  her  eyes  flashing  through  her  tears. 
"You've  deceived  me  once  —  you'd  do  it  again! 
No,  it's  all  over  —  you've  broken  my  heart  and 
destroyed  my  faith  in  human  nature.  I  hope  I 
shall  never  see  you  again.  Some  day  you'll 
understand  what  you've  done,  and  be  sorry ! " 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  not  sorry  now  ? " 

She  wished  that  they  were  at  home,  and  not 
in  this  horrible  tea-shop,  under  the  curious  eyes 
of  the  waitresses.  At  home  she  could  at  least 
have  buried  her  face  in  the  sofa  cushions  and 
resisted  all  his  pleading,  —  at  last,  perhaps,  let- 
ting him  take  one  cold  passive  hand  and  shower 
frantic  kisses  upon  it. 

He  would  come  to-morrow,  however,  and 
then —  At  present  the  thing  to  compass  was 
a  dignified  parting. 

"  Good-bye,"    she    said ;    "  I'm    going    home. 


10  THE    LITERARY   SENSE 

And  it's  good-bye  for  ever.  No  —  it's  only  pain- 
ful for  both  of  us.  There's  no  more  to  be  said ; 
you've  betrayed  me.  I  didn't  think  a  decent 
man  could  do  such  things."  She  was  pulling  on 
her  gloves.  "  Go  home  and  gloat  over  it  all ! 
And  that  poor  girl  —  you've  broken  her  heart 
too."  This  really  was  a  master  stroke  of 
nobility. 

He  stood  up  suddenly.  "  Do  you  mean  it  ?  " 
he  said,  and  his  tone  should  have  warned  her. 
"  Are  you  really  going  to  throw  me  over  for  a 
thing  like  this  ?  " 

The  anger  in  his  eyes  frightened  her,  and  the 
misery  of  his  face  wrung  her  heart ;  but  how 
could  she  say  — 

"  No,  of  course  I'm  not !  I'm  only  talking  as 
I  know  good  girls  ought  to  talk  "  ? 

So  she  said  — 

"  Yes.     Good-bye  ! " 

He  stood  up  suddenly.  "  Then  good-bye,"  he 
said,  "  and  may  God  forgive  you  as  I  do  !  "  And 
he  strode  down  between  the  marble  tables  and 
out  by  the  swing-door.  It  was  a  very  good  exit. 
At  the  corner  he  remembered  that  he  had  gone 
away  without  paying  for  the  tea,  and  his  natural 


THE    UNFAITHFUL    LOVER  11 

impulse  was  to  go  back  and  remedy  that  error. 
And  if  he  had  they,  would  certainly  have  made  it 
up.  But  how  could  he  go  back  to  say,  "  We  are 
parting  for  ever ;  but  still,  I  must  insist  on  the 
sad  pleasure  of  paying  for  our  tea  —  for  the  last 
time  "  ?  He  checked  the  silly  impulse.  What 
was  tea,  and  the  price  of  tea,  in  this  cataclysmic 
overthrowing  of  the  Universe  ?  So  she  waited 
for  him  in  vain,  and  at  last  paid  for  the  tea  her- 
self, and  went  home  to  wait  there  —  and  there, 
too,  in  vain,  for  he  never  came  back  to  her.  He 
loved  her  with  all  his  heart,  and  he,  also,  had 
what  she  had  never  suspected  in  him  —  the 
literary  sense.  Therefore  he,  never  dreaming 
that  the  literary  sense  had  inspired  her  too,  per- 
ceived that  to  the  jilted  lover  two  courses  only 
are  possible  —  suicide  or  ''the  front."  So  he 
enlisted,  and  went  to  South  Africa,  and  he  never 
came  home  covered  with  medals  and  glory,  which 
was  rather  his  idea,  to  the  few  simple  words  of 
explanation  that  would  have  made  all  straight, 
and  repaid  her  and  him  for  all  the  past.  Because 
Destiny  is  almost  without  the  literary  sense,  and 
Destiny  carelessly  decreed  that  he  should  die  of 
enteric  in  a  wretched  hut,  without  so  much  as 


12  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

hearing  a  gun  fired.  Literary  to  the  soul,  she  has 
taken  no  other  lover,  but  mourns  him  faithfully 
to  this  hour.  Yet  perhaps,  after  all,  that  is  not 
because  of  the  literary  sense.  It  may  be  because 
she  loved  him.  I  think  I  have  not  mentioned 
before  that  she  did  love  him. 


ROUNDING   OFF   A   SCENE 

A  SOFT  rain  was  falling.  Umbrellas  swayed 
and  gleamed  in  the  light  of  the  street 
lamps.  The  brightness  of  the  shop  windows 
reflected  itself  in  the  muddy  mirror  of  the  wet 
pavements.  A  miserable  night,  a  dreary  night, 
a  night  to  tempt  the  wretched  to  the  glimmering 
Embankment,  and  thence  to  the  river,  hardly  wet- 
ter or  cleaner  than  the  gutters  of  the  London 
streets.  Yet  the  sight  of  these  same  streets  was 
like  wine  in  the  veins  to  a  man  who  drove 
through  them  in  a  hansom  piled  with  Gladstone 
bags  and  P.  and  0.  trunks.  He  leaned  over  the 
apron  of  the  hansom  and  looked  eagerly,  long- 
ingly, lovingly,  at  every  sordid  detail :  the  crowd 
on  the  pavement,  its  haste  as  intelligible  to  him 
as  the  rush  of  ants  when  their  hill  is  disturbed  by 
the  spade ;  the  glory  and  glow  of  corner  public- 
houses  ;  the  shifting  dance  of  the  gleaming  wet 
umbrellas.      It  was  England,  it  was  London,  it 


14  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

was  home  —  and  his  heart  swelled  till  he  felt  it 
in  his  throat.  After  ten  years  —  the  dream  real- 
ised, the  longing  appeased.  London  —  and  all 
was  said. 

His  cab,  delayed  by  a  red  newspaper  cart, 
jammed  in  altercative  contact  with  a  dray  full 
of  brown  barrels,  paused  in  Cannon  Street. 
The  eyes  that  drank  in  the  scene  perceived  a 
familiar  face  watching  on  the  edge  of  the  pave- 
ment for  a  chance  to  cross  the  road  under  the 
horses'  heads  —  the  face  of  one  who  ten  years 
ago  had  been  the  slightest  of  acquaintances. 
Now  time  and  home-longing  juggled  with  mem- 
ory till  the  face  seemed  that  of  a  friend.  To 
meet  a  friend  —  this  did,  indeed,  round  off  the 
scene  of  the  home-coming.  The  man  in  the  cab 
threw  back  the  doors  and  leapt  out.  He  crossed 
under  the  very  nose-bag  of  a  stationed  dray 
horse.  He  wrung  the  friend  —  last  seen  as  an 
acquaintance  —  by  the  hand.  The  friend  caught 
fire  at  the  contact.  Any  passer-by,  who  should 
have  been  spared  a  moment  for  observation  by 
the  cares  of  umbrella  and  top-hat,  had  surely 
said,  "  Damon  and  Pythias  !  "  and  gone  onward 
smiling  in  sympathy  with  friends  long  severed 
and  at  last  reunited. 


ROUNDING   OFF   A   SCENE  15 

The  little  scene  ended  in  a  cordial  invitation 
from  the  impromptu  Damon,  on  the  pavement, 
to  Pythias,  of  the  cab,  to  a  little  dance  that 
evening  at  Damon's  house,  out  Sydenham  v^ay. 
Pythias  accepted  v^ith  enthusiasm,  though  at  his 
normal  temperature,  he  was  no  longer  a  dancing 
man.  The  address  was  noted,  hands  clasped 
again  with  strenuous  cordiality,  and  Pythias 
regained  his  hansom.  It  set  him  down  at  the 
hotel  from  which  ten  years  before  he  had  taken 
cab  to  Fenchurch  Street  Station.  The  menu  of 
his  dinner  had  been  running  in  his  head,  like  a 
poem,  all  through  the  wet  shining  streets.  He 
ordered,  therefore,  without  hesitation  — 

Ox-tail  Soup. 

Boiled  Cod  and  Oyster  Sauce. 

Boast  Beef  and  Horse-radish. 

Boiled  Potatoes.     Brussels  Sprouts. 

Cabinet  Pudding. 

Stilton.     Celery. 

The  cabinet  pudding  was  the  waiter's  sugges- 
tion. Anything  that  called  itself  "  pudding " 
would  have  pleased  as  well.  He  dressed  hur- 
riedly, and  when  the  soup    and   the  wine  card 


16  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

appeared  together  before  him  he  ordered  draught 
bitter  —  a  pint. 

"  And  bring  it  in  a  tankard,"  said  he. 

The  drive  to  Sydenham  was,  if  possible,  a  hap- 
pier dream  than  had  been  the  drive  from  Fen- 
church  Street  to  Charing  Cross.  There  were 
many  definite  reasons  why  he  should  have  been 
glad  to  be  in  England,  glad  to  leave  behind  him 
the  hard  work  of  his  Indian  life,  and  to  settle 
down  as  a  landed  proprietor.  But  he  did  not 
think  definite  thoughts.  The  whole  soul  and 
body  of  the  man  were  filled  and  suffused  by  the 
glow  that  transfuses  the  blood  of  the  schoolboy 
at  the  end  of  the  term. 

The  lights,  the  striped  awning,  the  red  carpet 
of  the  Sydenham  house  thrilled  and  charmed  him. 
Park  Lane  could  have  lent  them  no  further  grace  — 
Belgrave  Square  no  more  subtle  witchery.  This 
was  England,  England,  England ! 

He  went  in.  The  house  was  pretty  with  lights 
and  flowers.  There  was  music.  The  soft-car- 
peted stair  seemed  air  as  he  trod  it.  He  met  his 
host  —  was  led  up  to  girls  in  blue  and  girls  in 
pink,  girls  in  satin  and  girls  in  silk-muslin  — 
wrote    brief  precis  of    their  toilets  on  his    pro- 


ROUNDING   OFF   A   SCENE  17 

gramme.  Then  he  was  brought  face  to  face 
with  a  tall  dark-haired  woman  in  white.  His 
host's  voice  buzzed  in  his  ears,  and  he  caught 
only  the  last  words  —  "  old  friends."  Then  he 
was  left  staring  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  who  ten  years  ago  had  been  the  light  of 
his :  the  woman  who  had  jilted  him,  his  vain 
longing  for. whom  had  been  the  spur  to  drive 
him  out  of  England. 

"  May  I  have  another  ?  "  was  all  he  found  to 
say  after  the  bow,  the  conventional  request,  and 
the  scrawling  of  two  programmes. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  he  took  two  more. 

The  girls  in  pink,  and  blue,  and  silk,  and 
satin  found  him  a  good  but  silent  dancer.  On 
the  opening  bars  of  the  eighth  waltz  he  stood 
before  her.  Their  steps  went  together  like  song 
and  tune,  just  as  they  had  always  done.  And 
the  touch  of  her  hand  on  his  arm  thrilled 
through  him  in  just  the  old  way.  He  had,  in- 
deed, come  home. 

There  were  definite  reasons  why  he  should 
have  pleaded  a  headache  or  influenza,  or  any  lie, 
and  have  gone  away  before  his  second  dance 
with  her.     But  the  charm  of  the  situation  was 


18  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

too  great.  The  whole  thing  was  so  complete. 
On  his  very  first  evening  in  England  —  to  meet 
her !  He  did  not  go,  and  half-way  through  their 
second  dance  he  led  her  into  the  little  room, 
soft-curtained,  soft-cushioned,  soft-lighted,  at  the 
bend  of  the  staircase. 

Here  they  sat  silent,  and  he  fanned  her,  and 
he  assured  himself  once  more  that  she  was 
more  beautiful  than  ever.  Her  hair,  which  he 
had  known  in  short,  fluffy  curls,  lay  in  soberly 
waved  masses,  but  it  was  still  bright  and  dark, 
like  a  chestnut  fresh  from  the  husk.  Her  eyes 
were  the  same  as  of  old,  and  her  hands.  Her 
mouth  only  had  changed.  It  was  a  sad  mouth 
now,  in  repose  —  and  he  had  known  it  so  merry. 
Yet  he  could  not  but  see  that  its  sadness  added 
to  its  beauty.  The  lower  lip  had  been,  perhaps, 
too  full,  too  flexible.  It  was  set  now,  not  in 
sternness,  but  in  a  dignified  self-control.  He 
had  left  a  Greuze  girl  —  he  found  a  Madonna  of 
Bellini.  Yet  those  were  the  lips  he  had  kissed 
—  the  eyes  that  — 

The  silence  had  grown  to  the  point  of  em- 
barrassment. She  broke  it,  with  his  eyes  on 
her. 


ROUNDING   OFF   A   SCENE  19 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  all  about  yourself." 

"There's  nothing  much  to  tell.  My  cousin's 
dead,  and  I'm  a  full-fledged  squire  with  estates 
and  things.  I've  done  with  the  gorgeous  East, 
thank  God !  But  you  —  tell  me  about  your- 
self." 

"  What  shall  I  tell  you  ?  "  She  had  taken  the 
fan  from  him,  and  was  furling  and  unfurling  it. 

"  Tell  me  "  —  he  repeated  the  words  slowly  — 
"tell  me  the  truth!  It's  all  over  —  nothing 
matters  now.  But  I've  always  been  —  well 
—  curious.     Tell  me  why  you  threw  me  over  !  " 

He  yielded,  without  even  the  form  of  a  struggle, 
to  the  impulse  which  he  only  half  understood. 
What  he  said  was  true :  he  had  been  —  well  — 
curious.  But  it  was  long  since  anything  alive, 
save  vanity,  which  is  immortal,  had  felt  the 
sting  of  that  curiosity.  But  now,  sitting  beside 
this  beautiful  woman  who  had  been  so  much  to 
him,  the  desire  to  bridge  over  the  years,  to  be 
once  more  in  relations  with  her  outside  the  con- 
ventionalities of  a  ball-room,  to  take  part  with 
her  in  some  scene,  discreet,  yet  flavoured  by  the 
past  with  a  delicate  poignancy,  came  upon  him 
like    a    strong    man    armed.     It    held    him,   but 


20  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

through  a  veil,  and  he  did  not  see  its  face. 
If  he  had  seen  it,  it  would  have  shocked  him 
very  much. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  softly,  "  tell  me  now  —  at 
last  —  " 

Still  she  was  silent. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  again ;  "  why  did  you  do 
it  ?  How  was  it  you  found  out  so  very  sud- 
denly and  surely  that  we  weren't  suited  to  each 
other  —  that  was  the  phi-ase,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  know  ?  It's  not  very 
amusing,  is  it  —  raking  out  dead  fires  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  want  to  know.  I've  wanted  it 
every  day  since,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"  As  you  say  —  it's  all  ancient  history.  But 
you  used  not  to  be  stupid.  Are  you  sure  the 
real  reason  never  occurred  to  you  ? " 

"  Never  !  What  was  it  ?  Yes,  I  know  :  the 
next  waltz  is  beginning.  Don't  go.  Cut  him, 
whoever  he  is,  and  stay  here  and  tell  me.  I 
think  I  have  a  right  to  ask  that  of  you." 

u  Qh  —  rights  ! "  she  said.  "  But  it's  quite 
simple.  I  threw  you  over,  as  you  call  it,  be- 
cause I  found  out  you  didn't  care  for  me." 

"  / —  not  care  for  you  f  " 


ROUNDING   OFF   A   SCENE  21 

«  Exactly." 

"  But  even  so  —  if  you  believed  it  —  but  how 
could  you  ?  Even  so — why  not  have  told  me — 
why  not  have  given  me  a  chance  ?  "  His  voice 
trembled. 

Hers  was  firm. 

"  I  was  giving  you  a  chance,  and  I  wanted  to 
make  sure  that  you  would  take  it.  If  I'd  just 
said,  '  You  don't  care  for  me,'  you'd  have  said, 
'  Oh,  yes  I  do ! '  And  we  should  have  been 
just  where  we  were  before." 

"  Then  it  wasn't  that  you  were  tired  of  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  sedately,  "  it  wasn't  that !  " 

"  Then  you  —  did  you  really  care  for  me  still, 
even  when  you  sent  back  the  ring  and  wouldn't 
see  me,  and  went  to  Germany,  and  wouldn't 
open  my  letters,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  —  she  laughed  lightly  —  "  I  loved 
you  frightfully  all  that  time.  It  does  seem  odd 
now  to  look  back  on  it,  doesn't  it  ?  but  I  nearly 
broke  my  heart  over  you." 

"  Then  why  the  devil  —  " 

"  You  mustn't  swear,"  she  interrupted ;  "  I 
never  heard  you  do  that  before.  Is  it  the 
Indian  climate  ?  " 


22  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Why  did  you  send  me  away  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Don't  I  keep  telling  you  ?  "  Her  tone  was 
impatient.  "  I  found  out  you  didn't  care,  and  — 
and  I'd  always  despised  people  who  kept  other 
people  when  they  wanted  to  go.  And  I  knew 
you  were  too  honourable,  generous,  soft-hearted 
—  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  to  go  for  your  own  sake, 
so  I  thought,  for  your  sake,  I  would  make  you 
believe  you  were  to  go  for  mine." 

"  So  you  lied  to  me  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  We  weren't  suited  —  since  you 
didn't  love  me." 

"  /  didn't  love  you  ?  "  he  echoed  again. 

"  And  somehow  I'd  always  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing really  noble,  and  I  never  had  the  chance. 
So  I  thought  if  I  set  you  free  from  a  girl  you 
didn't  love,  and  bore  the  blame  myself,  it  would 
be  rather  noble.     And  so  I  did  it." 

"And  did  the  consciousness  of  your  own 
nobility  sustain  you  comfortably  ?  "  The  sneer 
was  well  sneered. 

"Well — not  for  long,"  she  admitted.  "You 
see,  I  began  to  doubt  after  a  while  whether  it  was 
really  ony  nobleness  after  all.  It  began  to  seem 
like  some  part  in  a  play  that  I'd   learned  and 


ROUNDING   OFF   A   SCENE  23 

played  —  don't  you  know  that  sort  of  dreams 
where  you  seem  to  be  reading  a  book  and  acting 
the  story  in  the  book  at  the  same  time  ?  It 
was  a  little  like  that  now  and  then,  and  I  got 
rather  tired  of  myself  and  my  nobleness,  and  I 
wished  I'd  just  told  you,  and  had  it  all  out  with 
you,  and  both  of  us  spoken  the  truth  and  parted 
friends.  That  was  what  I  thought  of  doing  at 
first.  But  then  it  wouldn't  have  been  noble ! 
And  I  really  did  want  to  be  noble  —  just  as 
some  people  want  to  paint  pictures,  or  write 
poems,  or  climb  Alps.  Come,  take  me  back  to 
the  ball-room.     It's  cold  here  in  the  Past." 

But  how  could  he  let  the  curtain  be  rung 
down  on  a  scene  half  finished,  and  so  good  a 
scene  ? 

"  Ah,  no !  tell  me,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
on  hers  ;  "  why  did  you  think  I  didn't  love  you  ?  " 

"  I  knew  it.  Do  you  remember  the  last  time 
you  came  to  see  me  ?  We  quarrelled  —  we  were 
always  quarrelling  —  but  we  always  made  it  up. 
That  day  we  made  it  up  as  usual,  but  you  were 
still  a  little  bit  angry  when  you  went  away. 
And  then  I  cried  like  a  fool.  And  then  you 
came  back,  and  —  you  remember  —  " 


24  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Go  on,"  he  said.  He  had  bridged  the  ten 
years,  and  the  scene  was  going  splendidly.  "  Go 
on  ;  you  must  go  on." 

"  You  came  and  knelt  down  by  me,"  she  said 
cheerfully.  "  It  was  as  good  as  a  play  —  you 
took  me  in  your  arms  and  told  me  you  couldn't 
bear  to  leave  me  with  the  slightest  cloud  between 
us.  You  called  me  your  heart's  dearest,  I  remem- 
ber —  a  phrase  you'd  never  used  before  —  and 
you  said  such  heaps  of  pretty  things  to  me ! 
And  at  last,  when  you  had  to  go,  you  swore  we 
should  never  quarrel  again  —  and  that  came  true, 
didn't  it  ?  " 

«  Ah,  but  why  f  " 

"  Well,  as  you  went  out  I  saw  you  pick  up 
your  gloves  off  the  table,  and  I  Tcnew  — " 

"  Knew  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  it  was  the  gloves  you  had  come 
back  for  and  not  me  —  only  when  you  saw  me 
crying  you  were  sorry  for  me,  and  determined 
to  do  your  duty  whatever  it  cost  you.  Don't ! 
What's  the  matter  ?  " 

He  had  caught  her  wrists  in  his  hands  and 
was  scowling  angrily  at  her. 

"  Good  God  !  was  that  all  ?     I  did  come  back 


ROUNDING   OFF   A   SCENE  25 

for  you.  I  never  thought  of  the  damned  gloves. 
I  don't  remember  them.  If  I  did  pick  them  up, 
it  must  have  been  mechanically  and  without 
noticing.     And  you  ruined  my  life  for  that  f  " 

He  was  genuinely  angry ;  he  was  back  in  the 
past,  where  he  had  a  right  to  be  angry  with  her. 
Her  eyes  grew  soft. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  was  wrong  —  that 
it  was  all  my  fault  —  that  you  did  love  me  ?  " 

"  Love  you  ?  "  he  said  roughly,  throwing  her 
hands  from  him  ;  "  of  course  I  loved  you  —  I 
shall  always  love  you.  I've  never  left  off  lov- 
ing you.  It  was  you  who  didn't  love  me.  It 
was  all  your  fault." 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  chin 
on  his  hands.  He  was  breathing  quickly.  The 
scene  had  swept  him  along  in  its  quickening  flow. 
He  shut  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  catch  at  something 
to  steady  himself  —  some  rope  by  which  he  could 
pull  himself  to  land  again.  Suddenly  an  arm 
was  laid  on  his  neck,  a  face  laid  against  his 
face.  Lips  touched  his  hand,  and  her  voice, 
incredibly  softened  and  tuned  to  the  key  of 
their  love's  overture,  spoke  — 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  dear,  forgive  me  !     If  you  love 


26  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

me  still  —  it's  too  good  to  be  true  —  but  if  you  do 
—  ah,  you  do!  —  forgive  me,  and  we  can  forget 
it  all !     Dear,  forgive  me  !     I  love  you  so  !  "  . 

He  was  quite  still,  quite  silent. 

"  Can't  you  forgive  me  ? "  she  began  again. 
He  suddenly  stood  up. 

"I'm  married,"  he  said.  He  drew  a  long  breath 
and  went  on  hurriedly,  standing  before  her,  but 
not  looking  at  her.  "  I  can't  ask  you  to  forgive 
me  —  I  shall  never  forgive  myself." 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said,  and  she 
laughed ;  "I  —  I  wasn't  serious.  I  saw  you 
were  trying  to  play  the  old  comedy,  and  I 
thought  I  had  better  play  up  to  you.  If  I'd 
known  you  were  married  —  but  it  was  only 
your  glove,  and  we're  such  old  acquaintances  ! 
There's  another  dance  beginning.  Please  go  — 
I've  no  doubt  my  partner  will  find  me." 

He  bowed,  gave  her  one  glance,  and  went. 
Halfway  down  the  stairs  he  turned  and  came 
back.  She  was  still  sitting  as  he  had  left  her. 
The  angry  eyes  she  raised  to  him  were  full  of 
tears.  She  looked  as  she  had  looked  ten  years 
before,  when  he  had  come  back  to  her,  and  the 
cursed  gloves  had  spoiled  everything.     He  hated 


ROUNDING   OFF   A   SCENE  27 

himself.  Why  had  he  played  with  fire  and 
raised  this  ghost  to  vex  her  ?  It  had  been  such 
pretty  fire,  and  such  a  beautiful  ghost.  But 
she  had  been  hurt  —  he  had  hurt  her.  She 
would  blame  herself  now  for  that  old  past ;  as 
for  the  new  past,  so  lately  the  present,  it  would 
not  bear  thinking  of. 

The  scene  must  be  rounded  off  somehow. 
He  had  let  her  wound  her  pride,  her  self-respect. 
He  must  heal  them.  The  light  touch  would  be 
best. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  I  just  wanted  to  tell 
you  that  I  knew  you  weren't  serious  just  now. 
As  you  say,  it  was  nothing  between  two  such 
old  friends.  And  —  and  —  "  He  sought  about 
for  some  further  consolation.  Hl-inspired,  with 
the  touch  of  her  lips  still  on  his  hand,  he  said, 
"  And  about  the  gloves.  Don't  blame  yourself 
about  that.  It  was  not  your  fault.  You  were 
perfectly  right.  It  was  the  gloves  I  came  back 
for." 

He  left  her  then,  and  next  day  journeyed  to 
Scotland  to  rejoin  his  wife,  of  whom  he  was, 
by  habit,  moderately  fond.  He  still  keeps  the 
white  glove  she  kissed,  and  at  first  reproached 


28  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

himself  whenever  he  looked  at  it.  But  now  he 
only  sentimentalises  over  it  now  and  then,  if  he 
happens  to  be  a  little  under  the  weather.  He 
feels  that  his  foolish  behaviour  at  that  Syden- 
ham dance  was  almost  atoned  for  by  the  nobility 
with  which  he  lied  to  spare  her,  the  light, 
delicate  touch  with  which  he  rounded  off  the 
scene. 

He  certainly  did  round  it  off.  By  a  few 
short,  easy  words  he  accomplished  three  things. 
He  destroyed  an  ideal  of  himself  which  she  had 
cherished  for  years ;  he  killed  a  pale  bud  of 
hope  which  she  had  loved  to  nurse  —  the  hope 
that  perhaps  in  that  old  past  it  had  been  she 
who  was  to  blame,  and  not  he,  whom  she 
loved ;  he  trampled  in  the  mud  the  living  rose 
which  would  have  bloomed  her  life  long,  the 
belief  that  he  had  loved,  did  love  her  —  the 
living  rose  that  would  have  had  magic  to 
quench  the  fire  of  shame  kindled  by  that  un- 
asked kiss,  a  fire  that  frets  for  ever  like  hell-fire, 
burning,  but  not  consuming,  her  self-respect. 

He  did,  without  doubt,  round  off  the  scene. 


THE   OBVIOUS 

HE  had  the  literary  sense,  but  he  had  it  as 
an  inverted  instinct.  He  had  a  keen  per- 
ception of  the  dramatically  fitting  in  art,  but  no 
counteracting  vision  of  the  fitting  in  life.  Life 
and  art,  indeed,  he  found  from  his  earliest  years 
difficult  to  disentwine,  and  later,  impossible  to 
disentangle.  And  to  disentangle  and  disentwine 
them  became  at  last  the  point  of  honour  to  him. 
He  first  knew  that  he  loved  her  on  the  occa- 
sion of  her  "  coming  of  age  party."  His  people 
and  hers  lived  in  the  same  sombre  London 
square :  their  Haslemere  gardens  were  divided 
only  by  a  sunk  fence.  He  had  known  her  all 
his  life.  Her  coming  of  age  succeeded  but  by 
a  couple  of  days  his  return  from  three  years  of 
lazy  philosophy  —  study  in  Germany  —  and  the 
sight  of  her  took  his  breath  away.  In  the  time- 
honoured  cliche  of  the  hurried  novelist  —  too 
hurried  to  turn  a  new  phrase  for  an  idea  as  old 

29 


30  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

as  the  new  life  of  spring  —  he  had  left  a  child : 
he  found  a  woman.  She  wore  a  soft  satiny- 
white  gown,  that  showed  gleams  of  rose  colour 
through  its  folds.  There  were  pink  hollyhock 
blossoms  in  the  bright  brown  of  her  hair.  Her 
eyes  were  shining  with  the  excitement  of  this 
festival  of  which  she  was  the  goddess.  He  lost 
his  head,  danced  with  her  five  times,  and  car- 
ried away  a  crumpled  hollyhock  bloom  that 
had  fallen  from  her  hair  during  the  last  Lancers, 
through  which  he  had  watched  her.  All  his 
dances  with  her  had  been  waltzes.  It  was  not 
till,  alone  again  at  his  hotel,  he  pulled  out  the 
hollyhock  flower  with  his  ball  programme  that 
he  awoke  to  a  complete  sense  of  the  insipid 
flatness  of  the  new  situation. 

He  had  fallen  in  love  —  was  madly  Spris,  at 
any  rate  —  and  the  girl  was  the  girl  whose 
charms,  whose  fortune,  whose  general  suitability 
as  a  match  for  him  had  been  dinned  into  his 
ears  ever  since  he  was  a  callow  boy  at  Oxford, 
and  she  a  long-black-silk-legged,  short-frocked 
tom-boy  of  fourteen.  Everyone  had  always  said 
that  it  was-  the  obvious  thing.  And  now  he 
had,  for  once,  done  exactly  what  was  expected 


THE   OBVIOUS  31 

of  him,  and  his  fine  literary  sense  revolted. 
The  worst  of  all  was  that  she  seemed  not  quite 
to  hate  him.  Better,  a  thousand  times  better, 
that  he  should  have  loved  and  longed,  and  never 
won  a  smile  from  her  —  that  he  should  have 
sacrificed  something,  anything,  and  gone  his 
lonely  way.  But  she  had  smiled  on  him, 
undoubtedly  she  had  smiled,  and  he  did  not 
want  to  play  the  part  so  long  ago  assigned  to 
him  by  his  people.  He  wanted  to  be  Sidney 
Carton.  Darnay's  had  always  seemed  to  him 
the  inferior  role. 

Yet  he  could  not  keep  his  thoughts  from  her, 
and  for  what  was  left  of  the  year  his  days  and 
nights  were  a  restless  see-saw  of  longing  and 
repulsion,  advance  and  retreat.  His  moods  were 
reflected  in  hers,  but  always  an  interview  later ; 
that  is  to  say,  if  he  were  cold  on  Tuesday  she 
on  Thursday  would  be  colder.  If  on  Thursday 
he  grew  earnest,  Sunday  would  find  her  kind. 
But  he,  by  that  time,  was  frigid.  So  that  they 
never,  after  the  first  wildly  beautiful  evening 
when  their  hearts  went  out  to  each  other  in  a 
splendour  of  primitive  frankness,  met  in  moods 
that  chimed. 


32  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

This    safe-guarded    him.       It    irritated    her. 
And  it  most  successfully  bewitched  them  both. 

His  people  and  her  people  looked  on,  and 
were  absolutely  and  sadly  convinced  that  —  as 
her  brother  put  it  to  his  uncle  —  it  was  "  no  go." 
Thereupon,  a  certain  young-old  cotton  broker 
appearing  on  the  scene  and  bringing  gifts  with 
him,  her  people  began  to  put  pressure  on  her. 
She  loathed  the  cotton-broker,  and  said  so.  One 
afternoon  everyone  was  by  careful  accident  got 
out  of  the  way,  and  the  cotton-broker  caught 
her  alone.  That  night  there  was  a  scene. 
Her  father  talked  a  little  too  much  of  obedience 
and  of  duty,  her  mother  played  the  hysterical 
symphony  with  the  loud  pedal  hard  down,  and 
next  morning  the  girl  had  vanished,  leaving  the 
conventional  note  of  farewell  on  the  pincushion. 

Now  the  two  families,  being  on  all  accounts 
close  allies,  had  bought  jointly  a  piece  of  land 
near  the  Littlestone  golf  links,  and  on  it  had 
built  a  bungalow,  occupied  by  members  of 
either  house  in  turn,  according  to  any  friendly 
arrangement  that  happened  to  commend  itself. 
But  at  this  time  of  the  year  folk  were  keeping 
Christmas  season  dismally  in  their  town  houses. 


THE   OBVIOUS  33 

It  was  on  the  day  when  the  cotton-broker 
made  his  failure  that  the  whole  world  seemed 
suddenly  worthless  to  the  man  with  the  holly- 
hock bloom  in  his  pocket-book,  because  he  had 
met  her  at  a  dance,  and  he  had  been  tender, 
but  she,  reflecting  his  mood  of  their  last 
meeting,  had  been  glacial.  So  he  lied  roundly 
to  his  people,  and  told  them  that  he  was 
going  to  spend  a  week  or  two  with  an 
old  chum  who  was  staying  up  for  the  vaca- 
tion at  Cambridge,  and  instead,  he  chose  the 
opposite  point  of  the  compass,  and  took  train  to 
New  Romney,  and  walked  over  to  the  squat, 
one-storied  bungalow  near  the  sea.  Here  he  let 
himself  in  with  the  family  latch-key,  and  set  to 
work,  with  the  help  of  a  box  from  the  stores, 
borne  behind  him  with  his  portmanteau  on  a 
hand-cart,  to  keep  Christmas  by  himself.  This, 
at  least,  was  not  literary.  It  was  not  in  the 
least  what  a  person  in  a  book  would  do.  He  lit 
a  fire  in  the  dining-room,  and  the  chimney  was 
damp  and  smoked  abominably,  so  that  when  he 
had  fed  full  on  tinned  meats  he  was  fain  to  let 
the  fire  go  out  and  to  sit  in  his  fur-lined  over- 
coat by  the  be-cindered  grate,  now  fast  growing 

D 


34  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

cold,  and  smoke  pipe  after  pipe  of  gloomy  reflec- 
tion. He  thought  of  it  all.  The  cursed  counte- 
nance which  his  people  were  ready  to  give  to  the 
match  that  he  couldn't  make  —  her  maddening 
indecisions  —  his  own  idiotic  variableness.  He 
had  lighted  the  lamp,  but  it  smelt  vilely,  and  he 
blew  it  out,  and  did  not  light  candles  because  it 
was  too  much  trouble.  So  the  early  winter  dusk 
deepened  into  night,  and  the  bitter  north  wind 
had  brought  the  snow,  and  it  drifted  now  in 
feather-soft  touches  against  the  windows. 

He  thought  of  the  good  warm  dining-room  in 
Russell  Square  —  of  the  gathering  of  aunts  and 
uncles  and  cousins,  uncongenial,  perhaps,  but  still 
human,  and  he  shivered  in  his  fur-lined  coat  and 
his  icy  solitude,  damning  himself  for  the  fool  he 
knew  he  was. 

And  even  as  he  damned,  his  breath  was 
stopped,  and  his  heart  leaped  at  the  sound,  faint 
but  unmistakable,  of  a  key  in  the  front  door. 
H  a  man  exist  not  too  remote  from  his  hairy 
ancestors  to  have  lost  the  habit  of  the  pricking 
ear,  he  was  that  man.  He  pricked  his  ears,  so 
far  as  the  modern  man  may,  and  listened. 

The    key    grated    in    the    lock  —  grated    and 


THE   OBVIOUS  35 

turned;  the  door  was  opened,  and  banged  again. 
Something  was  set  down  in  the  little  passage, 
set  down  thumpingly  and  wholly  without  pre- 
caution. He  heard  a  hand  move  along  the  parti- 
tion of  match-boarding.  He  heard  the  latch  of 
the  kitchen  door  rise  and  fall  —  and  he  heard 
the  scrape  and  spurt  of  a  struck  match. 

He  sat  still.  He  would  catch  this  burglar  red- 
handed. 

Through  the  ill-fitting  partitions  of  the  jerry- 
built  bungalow  he  could  hear  the  intruder  mov- 
ing recklessly  in  the  kitchen.  The  legs  of  chairs 
and  tables  grated  on  the  brick  floor.  He  took 
off  his  shoes,  rose,  and  crept  out  through  the  pas- 
sage towards  the  kitchen  door.  It  stood  ajar. 
A  clear-cut  slice  of  light  came  from  it.  Treading 
softly  in  his  stockinged  feet,  he  came  to  it  and 
looked  in.  One  candle,  stuck  in  a  tea-saucer, 
burned  on  the  table.  A  weak  blue-and-yellow 
glimmer  came  from  some  sticks  in  the  bottom 
of  the  fireplace. 

Kneeling  in  front  of  this,  breathless  with  the 
endeavour  to  blow  the  damp  sticks  to  flame, 
crouched  the  burglar.  A  woman.  A  girl.  She 
had    laid     aside    hat    and     cloak.       The     first 


36  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

sight  of  her  was  like  a  whirlwind  sweeping 
over  heart  and  brain.  For  the  bright  brown 
hair  that  the  candle-light  lingered  in  was  like 
Her  dear  brown  hair  —  and  when  she  rose  sud- 
denly, and  turned  towards  the  door,  his  heart 
stood  still,  for  it  was  She  —  her  very  self. 

She  had  not  seen  him.  He  retreated,  in  all 
the  stillness  his  tortured  nerves  allowed,  and 
sat  down  again  in  the  fur  coat  and  the  dining- 
room.  She  had  not  heard  him.  He  was,  for 
some  moments,  absolutely  stunned,  then  he  crept 
to  the  window.  In  the  poignant  stillness  of  the 
place  he  could  hear  the  heavy  flakes  of  snow 
dabbing  softly  at  the  glass. 

She  was  here.  She,  like  him,  had  fled  to  this 
refuge,  confident  in  its  desertion  at  this  season 
by  both  the  families  who  shared  a  right  to  it. 
She  was  there  —  he  was  there.  Why  had  she 
fled  ?  The  question  did  not  wait  to  be  an- 
swered ;  it  sank  before  the  other  question.  What 
was  he  to  do  ?  The  whole  literary  soul  of  the 
man  cried  out  against  either  of  the  obvious 
course^  of  action. 

"  I  can  go  in,"  he  said,  "  and  surprise  her,  and 
tell  her  I  love  her,  and  then  walk  out  with  dig- 


THE   OBVIOUS  37 

nified  propriety,  and  leave  her  alone  here.  That's 
conventional  and  dramatic.  Or  I  can  sneak  off 
v^ithout  her  knowing  I've  been  here  at  all,  and 
leave  her  to  spend  the  night  unprotected  in  this 
infernal  frozen  dog-hutch.  That's  conventional 
enough,  heaven  knows !  But  what's  the  use  of 
being  a  reasonable  human  being  with  free-will 
if  you  can't  do  anything  but  the  literarily  and 
romantically  obvious  ?  " 

Here  a  sudden  noise  thrilled  him.  Next 
moment  he  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  She 
had  but  dropped  a  gridiron.  As  it  crashed 
and  settled  down  with  a  rhythmic  rattle  on  the 
kitchen  flags,  the  thought  flowed  through  him 
like  a  river  of  Paradise.  "  If  she  did  love  me 
—  if  I  loved  her  —  what  an  hour  and  what 
a  moment  this  would  be  ! " 

Meantime  she,  her  hands  helpless  with  cold, 
was  dropping  clattering  gridirons  not  ^ve  yards 
from  him. 

Suppose  he  went  out  to  the  kitchen  and  sud- 
denly announced  himself ! 

How  flat  —  how  obvious  ! 

Suppose  he  crept  quietly  away  and  went  to 
the  inn  at  New  Romney  ! 


38  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

How  desperately  flat !  How  more  than 
obvious ! 

Suppose  he  —  but  the  third  course  refused 
itself  to  the  desperate  clutch  of  his  drowning 
imagination,  and  left  him  clinging  to  the  bare 
straw  of  a  question.     What  should  he  do  ? 

Suddenly  the  really  knightly  and  unconven- 
tional idea  occurred  to  him,  an  idea  that  would 
save  him  from  the  pit  of  the  obvious,  yawning 
on  each  side. 

There  was  a  bicycle  shed,  where,  also,  wood 
was  stored  and  coal,  and  lumber  of  all  sorts. 
He  would  pass  the  night  there,  warm  in  his  fur 
coat,  and  his  determination  not  to  let  his  con- 
duct be  shaped  by  what  people  in  books  would 
have  done.  And  in  the  morning  —  strong  w4th 
the  great  renunciation  of  all  the  possibilities  that 
this  evening's  meeting  held  —  he  would  come 
and  knock  at  the  front  door  —  just  like  anybody 
else  —  and  —  qui  vivra  verra.  At  least,  he  would 
be  watching  over  her  rest  —  and  would  be  able 
to  protect  the  house  from  tramps. 

Very  gently  and  cautiously,  all  in  the  dark,  he 
pushed  his  bag  behind  the  sofa,  covered  the 
stores  box  with  a  liberty  cloth  from  a  side  table, 


THE   OBVIOUS  39 

crept  out  softly,  and  softly  opened  the  front 
door  ;  it  opened  softly,  that  is,  but  it  shut  with 
an  unmistakable  click  that  stung  in  his  ears  as 
he  stood  on  one  foot  on  the  snowy  doorstep 
struggling  with  the  knots  of  his  shoe  laces. 

The  bicycle  shed  was  uncompromisingly  dark, 
and  smelt  of  coal  sacks  and  paraffin.  He  found 
a  corner  —  between  the  coals  and  the  wood  — 
and  sat  down  on  the  floor. 

"  Bother  the  fur  coat,"  was  his  answer  to  the 
doubt  whether  coal  dust  and  broken  twigs  were 
a  good  down-setting  for  that  triumph  of  the 
Bond  Street  art.  There  he  sat,  full  of  a  chas- 
tened joy  at  the  thought  that  he  watched  over 
her  —  that  he,  sleepless,  untiring,  was  on  guard, 
ready,  at  an  instant's  warning,  to  spring  to  her 
aid,  should  she  need  protection.  The  thought 
was  mightily  soothing.  The  shed  was  cold. 
The  fur  coat  was  warm.  In  five  minutes  he 
was  sleeping  peacefully  as  any  babe. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  with  the  light  of  a  big 
horn  lantern  in  his  eyes,  and  in  his  ears  the  snap- 
ping of  wood. 

She  was  there  —  stooping  beside  the  heaped 
faggots,  breaking  off  twigs  to  fill  the  lap  of  her 


40  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

up-gathered  blue  gown;  the  shimmery  silk  of 
her  petticoat  gleamed  greenly.  He  was  partly 
hidden  by  a  derelict  bicycle  and  a  watering-can. 

He  hardly  dared  to  draw  breath. 

Composedly  she  broke  the  twigs.  Then  like 
a  flash  she  turned  towards  him. 

"  Who's  there  ?  "  she  said. 

An  inspiration  came  to  him  —  and  this,  at 
least,  was  not  flat  or  obvious.  He  writhed  into 
the  darkness  behind  a  paraflin  cask,  slipped  out 
of  his  fur  coat,  and  plunged  his  hands  in  the  dust 
of  the  coal. 

"  Don't  be  'ard  on  a  pore  cove,  mum,"  he 
mumbled,  desperately  rubbing  the  coal  dust  on 
to  his  face ;  "  you  wouldn't  go  for  to  turn  a 
dawg  out  on  a  night  like  this,  let  alone  a  pore 
chap  outer  work  !  " 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  admired  the  courage  of 
the  girl.  Alone,  miles  from  any  other  house, 
she  met  a  tramp  in  an  outhouse  as  calmly  as 
though   he  had   been   a  fly  in  the  butter. 

"  You've  no  business  here,  you  know,"  she 
said  briskly.     "  What  did  you  come  for  ?  " 

"  Shelter,  mum  —  I  won't  take  nothing  as 
don't  belong  to  me  —  not  so  much  as  a  lump  of 
coal,  mum,  not  if  it  was  ever  so  ! " 


THE   OBVIOUS  41 

She  turned  her  head.  He  almost  thought  she 
smiled. 

"  But  I  can't  have  tramps  sleeping  here,"  she 
said. 

"  It's  not  as  if  I  was  a  reg'lar  tramp,"  he  said, 
warming  to  his  part  as  he  had  often  done  on  the 
stage  in  his  A.D.C.  days.  "  I'm  a  respectable 
working-man,  mum,  as  'as  seen  better  days." 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  she  said.  "  I'll  give  you 
something  to  eat  before  you  go  if  you'll  come  to 
the  door  in  five  minutes." 

He  could  not  refuse  —  but  when  she  was  gone 
into  the  house  he  could  bolt.     So  he  said  — 

"  Now  may  the  blessing  !  It's  starving  I  am, 
mum,  and  on  Christmas  Eve  !  " 

This  time  she  did  smile  :  it  was  beyond  a 
doubt.  He  had  always  thought  her  smile  charm- 
ing. She  turned  at  the  door,  and  her  glance 
followed  the  lantern's  rays  as  they  pierced  the 
darkness  where  he  crouched. 

The  moment  he  heard  the  house  door  shut,  he 
sprang  up,  and  lifted  the  fur  coat  gingerly  to  the 
wood-block.  Flight,  instant  flight !  Yet  how 
could  he  present  himself  at  New  Romney  with 
a  fur  coat  and  a  face  like  a  collier's  ?     He  had 


42  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

drawn  a  bucket  of  water  from  the  well  earlier  in 
the  day  ;  some  would  be  left ;  it  was  close  by 
the  back  door.  He  tiptoed  over  the  snow  and 
washed,  and  washed,  and  washed.  He  was 
drying  face  and  hands  with  a  pocket-handker- 
chief that  seemed  strangely  small  and  cold  when 
the  door  opened  suddenly,  and  there,  close  by 
him,  was  she,  silhouetted  against  the  warm  glow 
of  fire  and  candles. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said ;  "  you  can't  possibly  see 
to  wash  out  there." 

Before  he  knew  it  her  hand  was  on  his  arm, 
and  she  had  drawn  him  to  the  warmth  and 
light. 

He  looked  at  her  —  but  her  eyes  were  on  the 
fire. 

"  I'll  give  you  some  warm  water,  and  you  can 
wash  at  the  sink,"  she  said,  closing  the  door  and 
taking  the  kettle  from  the  fire. 

He  caught  sight  of  his  face  in  the  square  of 
looking-glass  over  the  sink  tap. 

Was  it  worth  while  to  go  on  pretending  ? 
Yet  his  face  was  still  very  black.  And  she  evi- 
dently had  not  recognised  him.  Perhaps  — 
surely  she  would  have  the  good  taste  to  retire 


THE   OBVIOUS  43 

while  the  tramp  washed,  so  that  he  could  take 
his  coat  off  ?  Then  he  could  take  flight,  and  the 
situation  would  be  saved  from  absolute  farce. 

But  when  she  had  poured  the  hot  water  into 
a  bowl  she  sat  down  in  the  Windsor  chair  by 
the  fire  and  gazed  into  the  hot  coals. 

He  washed. 

He  washed  till  he  was  quite  clean. 

He  dried  face  and  hands  on  the  rough  towel. 

He  dried  them  till  they  were  scarlet  and  shone. 
But  he  dared  not  turn  around. 

There  seemed  no  way  out  of  this  save  by  the 
valley  of  humiliation.  Still  she  sat  looking  into 
the  fire. 

As  he  washed  he  saw  with  half  a  retroverted 
eye  the  round  table  spread  with  china  and  glass 
and  silver. 

"  As  I  live  —  it's  set  for  two ! "  he  told  him- 
self. And,  in  an  instant,  jealousy  answered, 
once  and  for  all,  the  questions  he  had  been 
asking  himself  since  August. 

"  Aren't  you  clean  yet  ?  "  she  said  at  last. 

How  could  he  speak  ? 

"  Aren't  you  clean  yet  f "  she  repeated,  and 
called  him  by  his  name.    He  turned  then  quickly 


44  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

enough.  She  was  leaning  back  in  the  chair 
laughing  at  him. 

"  How  did  you  know  me  ?  "  he  asked  angrily. 

"  Your  tramp-voice  might  have  deceived  me," 
she  said,  "  you  did  do  it  most  awfully  well ! 
But,  you  see,  I'd  been  looking  at  you  for  ages 
before  you  woke." 

"  Then  good  night,"  said  he. 

"  Good  night !  "  said  she  ;  "  but  it's  not  seven 
yet !  " 

"  You're  expecting  someone,"  he  said,  pointing 
dramatically  to  the  table. 

"  Oh,  that  I  "  she  said  ;  "  yes  —  that  was  for 
—  for  the  poor  man  as  had  seen  better  days  ! 
There's  nothing  but  eggs  —  but  I  couldn't  turn 
a  dog  from  my  door  on  such  a  night  —  till  I'd 
fed  it !  " 

"  Do  you  really  mean  —  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  It's  glorious  !  " 

"  It's  a  picnic." 

"  But  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Oh  —  well !     Go  if  you  like  !  "  said  she. 

It  was  not  only  eggs  :  it  was  all  sorts  of  things 
from  that  stores  box.    They  ate,  and  they  talked. 


THE   OBVIOUS  45 

He  told  her  that  he  had  been  bored  in  town  and 
had  sought  relief  in  solitude.  That,  she  told  him, 
was  her  case  also.  He  told  her  how  he  had 
heard  her  come  in,  and  how  he  had  hated  to 
take  either  the  obvious  course  of  following  her 
to  the  kitchen,  saying  "  How  do  you  do  ?  "  and 
retiring  to  New  Romney  ;  or  the  still  more  ob- 
vious course  of  sneaking  away  without  asking 
her  how  she  did.  And  he  told  her  how  he  had 
decided  to  keep  watch  over  her  from  the  bicycle 
shed.  And  how  the  coal-black  inspiration  had 
come  to  him.     And  she  laughed. 

"  That  was  much  more  literary  than  anything 
else  you  could  have  thought  of,"  said  she ;  "  it 
was  exactly  like  a  book.  And  oh  —  you've  no 
idea  how  funny  you  looked." 

They  both  laughed,  and  there  was  a  si- 
lence. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  I  can  hardly  believe 
that  this  is  the  first  meal  we've  ever  had  alone 
together  ?     It  seems  as  though  —  " 

"  It  is  funny,"  she  said,  smiling  hurriedly  at 
him. 

He  did  not  smile.  He  said  :  "  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  why  you  were  so  angel-good  —  why  did 


46  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

you  let  me  stay  ?  Why  did  you  lay  the  pretty 
table  for  two  ?  " 

"  Because  we've  never  been  in  the  same  mood 
at  the  same  time,"  she  said  desperately ;  "  and 
somehow  I  thought  we  should  be  this  even- 
ing." 

"  What  mood  ?  "  he  asked  inexorably. 

u  Why  —  jolly  —  cheerful,"  she  said,  with  the 
slightest  possible  hesitation. 

"  I  see." 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  she  said  in 
a  voice  that  fluttered  a  little  — 

"My  old  governess.  Miss  Pettingill  —  you  re- 
member old  Pet  ?  Well,  she's  coming  by  the 
train  that  gets  in  at  three.  I  wired  to  her  from 
town.     She  ought  to  be  here  by  now  —  " 

"  Ought  she  ?  "  he  cried,  pushing  back  his  chair 
and  coming  towards  her  —  "  ought  she  ?  Then, 
by  heaven !  before  she  comes  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  something  —  " 

"  No,  don't !  "  she  cried.  "  You'll  spoil  every- 
thing. Go  and  sit  down  again.  You  shall !  I 
insist !  Let  me  tell  you !  I  always  swore  I 
would  some  day  !  " 

u  Why  ?  "  said  he,  and  sat  down. 


THE   OBVIOUS  47 

"  Because  I  knew  you^d  never  make  up  your 
mind  to  tell  tne  —  " 

"  To  tell  you  what  ?  " 

"  AnytMng  —  for  fear  you  should  have  to  say 
it  in  the  same  way  someone  else  had  said  it 
before  ! " 

"  Said  what  ?  " 

"  Anything  !  Sit  still !  Now  /'m  going  to 
tell  youP 

She  came  slowly  round  the  table  and  knelt 
on  one  knee  beside  him,  her  elbows  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair. 

''  You've  never  had  the  courage  to  make  up 
your  mind  to  anything,"  she  began. 

"  Is  that  what  you  were  going  to  tell  me  ?  " 
he  asked,  and  looked  in  her  eyes  till  she  dropped 
their  lids. 

"  No  —  yes  —  no  !  I  haven't  anything  to  tell 
you  really.     Good  night." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  anything  to  tell,"  she  said. 

«  Then  I'll  tell  you,"  said  he. 

She  started  up,  and  the  little  brass  knocker's 
urgent  summons  resounded  through  the  bunga- 
low. 


48  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

"  Here  she  is  !  "  she  cried. 

He  also  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  And  we  haven't  told  each  other  anything  ! " 
he  said. 

"  Haven't  v^e  ?  Ah,  no  —  don't !  Let  me  go  ! 
There  —  she's  knocking  again.  You  must  let 
me  go  ! " 

He  let  her  slip  through  his  arms. 

At  the  door  she  paused  to  flash  a  soft,  queer 
smile  at  him. 

"  It  was  I  who  told  you,  after  all !  "  she  said. 
"  Aren't  you  glad  ?  Because  that  wasn't  a  bit 
literary." 

"  You  didn't.     I  told  you,"  he  retorted. 

"  Not  you ! "  she  said  scornfully.  "  That 
would  have  been  too   obvious." 


THE    LIE    ABSOLUTE 

THE  tradesmen's  books,  orderly  spread,  lay  on 
the  rose-wood  writing-table,^  each  adorned 
by  its  own  just  pile  of  gold  and  silver  coin. 
The  books  at  the  White  House  were  paid  weekly, 
and  paid  in  cash.  It  had  always  been  so.  The 
brown  holland  blinds  were  lowered  half-way. 
The  lace  curtains  almost  met  across  the  windows. 
Thus,  while,  without,  July  blazed  on  lawns  and 
paths  and  borders,  in  this  room  a  cool  twilight 
reigned.  A  leisured  quiet,  an  ordered  ease, 
reigned  there  too,  as  they  had  done  for  every 
day  of  Dorothea's  thirty-five  years.  The  White 
House  was  one  of  those  to  which  no  change 
comes.  None  but  Death,  and  Death,  however 
he  may  have  wrung  the  heart  or  stunted  the 
soul  of  the  living,  had  been  powerless  to  change 
outward  seemings.  Dorothea  had  worn  a  black 
dress  for  a  while,  and  she  best  knew  what  tears 
she    had  wept   and   for  what  long  months  the 

E  49 


50  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

light  of  life  had  gone  out  of  all  things.  But  the 
tears  had  not  blinded  her  eyes  to  the  need  of  a 
mirror-polish  on  the  old  mahogany  furniture, 
and  all  through  those  months  there  had  been,  at 
least,  the  light  of  duty.  The  house  must  be 
kept  as  her  dead  mother  had  kept  it.  The  three 
prim  maids  and  the  gardener  had  been  "  in  the 
family  "  since  Dorothea  was  a  girl  of  twenty  — 
a  girl  with  hopes  and  dreams  and  fond  imagin- 
ings that,  spreading  bright  wings,  wandered  over 
a  world  far  other  than  this  dainty,  delicate,  self- 
improving,  coldly  charitable,  unchanging  exist- 
ence. Well,  the  dreams  and  the  hopes  and  the 
fond  imaginings  had  come  home  to  roost.  He 
who  had  set  them  flying  had  gone  away :  he 
had  gone  to  see  the  world.  He  had  not  come 
back.  He  was  seeing  it  still ;  and  all  that  w^as 
left  of  a  girl's  first  romance  was  in  certain  neat 
packets  of  foreign  letters  in  the  drawer  of  the 
rose-wood  table,  and  in  the  disciplined  soul  of 
the  woman  who  sat  before  it  "  doing  the  books." 
Monday  was  the  day  for  this.  Every  day  had 
its  special  duties :  every  duty  its  special  hour. 
While  the  mother  had  stayed  there  had  been 
love  to  give  life  to  this  life  that  was  hardly  life 


THE   LIE   ABSOLUTE  51 

at  all.  Now  the  mother  was  gone  it  sometimes 
seemed  to  Dorothea  that  she  had  not  lived  for 
these  fifteen  years  —  and  that  even  the  life  be- 
fore had  been  less  life  than  a  dream  of  it.  She 
sighed. 

"  I'm     old,"     she     said,     "  and    I'm     growing 
silly." 

She  put  her  pen  neatly  in  the  inkstand  tray  : 
it  was  an  old  silver  pen,  and  an  old  inkstand  of 
Sevres  porcelain.  Then  she  went  out  into  the 
garden  by  the  French  window,  muffled  in  jas- 
mine, and  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a 
stranger,  a  straight  well-set-up  man  of  forty  or 
thereabouts,  with  iron-grey  hair  and  a  w^hite 
moustache.  Before  his  hand  had  time  to  reach' 
the  Panama  hat  she  knew  him,  and  her  heart 
leaped  up  and  sank  sick  and  trembling.  But 
she  said  :  — 

"  To  whom  have  I  the  pleasure  —  ?  " 

The  man  caught  her  hands. 

"  Why,  Dolly,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  know  me  ? 
I  should  have  known  you  anywhere." 

A  rose-flush  deepened  on  her  face. 

"  It  can't  be  Robert  ?  " 

"  Can't  it  ?    And  how  are  you,  Dolly  ?    Every- 


52  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

thing's  just  the  same  —  By  Jove !  the  very 
same  heliotropes  and  pansies  in  the  very  same 
border  —  and  the  jasmine  and  the  sundial  and 
everything." 

"  They  tell  me  the  trees  have  grown,"  she  said. 
"  I  like  to  think  it's  all  the  same.  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  you  were  coming  home  ?     Come  in." 

She  led  him  through  the  hall  with  the  ba- 
rometer and  the  silver-faced  clock  and  the  cases 
of  stuffed  birds. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  wanted  to  surprise  you  — 
and,  by  George !  I've  surprised  myself.  It's 
beautiful.     It's  all  just  as  it  used  to  be,  Dolly." 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  No  one  had 
called  her  Dolly  since  the  mother  went,  whose 
going  had  made  everything,  for  ever,  other  than 
it  used  to  be. 

"  I'll  tell  them  you're  staying  for  lunch." 

She  got  away  on  that,  and  stood  a  moment  in 
the  hall,  before  the  stuffed  fox  with  the  duck 
in  its  mouth,  to  catch  strongly  at  her  lost 
composure. 

If  anyone  had  had  the  right  to  ask  the  reason 
of  her  agitation,  and  had  asked  it,  Dorothea 
\vould  have  said  that  the  sudden  happening  of 


THE   LIE  ABSOLUTE  53 

anything  was  enough  to  upset  one  in  whose  life 
nothing  ever  happened.  But  no  one  had  the 
right. 

She  w^ent  into  the  kitchen  to  give  the  neces- 
sary orders. 

"  Not  the  mince,"  she  said ;  "  or,  stay.  Yes, 
that  would  do,  too.  You  must  cook  the  fowl 
that  was  for  to-night's  dinner  —  and  Jane  can  go 
down  to  the  village  for  something  else  for  to- 
night. And  salad  and  raspberries.  And  I  will 
put  out  some  wine.  My  cousin,  Mr.  Courtenay, 
has  come  home  from  India.  He  will  lunch  with 
me." 

"Master  Bob,"  said  the  cook,  as  the  kitchen 
door  closed,  "  well,  if  I  ever  did  !  He's  a  married 
man  by  this  time,  with  young  folkses  growing 
up  around  him,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  He  never 
did  look  twice  the  same  side  of  the  road  where 
she  was.     Poor  Miss  Dolly  !  " 

Most  of  us  are  mercifully  ignorant  of  the 
sympathy  that  surrounds  us. 

"  It's  wonderful,"  he  said,  when  she  rejoined 
him  in  the  drawing-room.  "  I  feel  like  the 
Prodigal  Son.  When  I  think  of  the  drawing- 
rooms  I've  seen.     The  gim-crack  trumpery,  the 


54  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

curtains  and  the  pictures  and  the  furniture  con- 
stantly shifted,  the  silly  chatter,  the  obvious 
curios,  the  commonplace  rarities,  the  inartistic 
art,  and  the  brainless  empty  chatter,  spiteful  as 
often  as  not,  and  all  the  time  this  has  been 
going  on  beautifully,  quietly,  perfectly.  Dolly, 
you're  a  lucky  girl !  " 

To  her  face  the  word  brought  a  flush  that 
almost  justified  it. 

They  talked :  and  he  told  her  how  all  these 
long  years  he  had  wearied  for  the  sight  of  Eng- 
lish fields,  and  gardens,  of  an  English  home  like 
this  —  till  he  almost  believed  that  he  was  speak- 
ing the  truth. 

He  looked  at  Dorothea  with  long,  restful 
hands  quietly  folded,  as  she  talked  in  the  dark- 
ened drawing-room,  at  Dorothea  with  busy, 
skilful  hands  among  the  old  silver  and  the  old 
glass  and  the  old  painted  china  at  lunch.  He 
listened  through  the  drowsy  afternoon  to  Doro- 
thea's gentle,  high-bred,  low-toned  voice,  to  the 
music  of  her  soft,  rare  laugh,  as  they  sat  in  the 
wicker-chairs  under  the  weeping  ash  on  the  lawn. 

And  he  thought  of  other  women  —  a  crowd  of 
them,  with  high,  shrill  tones  and  constant  foolish 


TPIE   LIE   ABSOLUTE  56 

cackle  of  meaningless  laughter ;  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  paint,  powder,  furbelows,  flirtation, 
empty  gaiety,  feverish  flippancy.  He  thought, 
too,  of  women,  two  and  three,  whose  faces  stood 
out  from  the  crowd  and  yet  were  of  it.  And 
he  looked  at  Dorothea's  delicate  worn  face  and 
her  honest  eyes  with  the  faint  lines  round  them. 
As  he  went  through  the  hush  of  the  evening 
to  his  rooms  at  the  "  Spotted  Dog  "  the  thought 
of  Dorothea,  of  her  house,  her  garden,  her  peace- 
ful ordered  life  stirred  him  to  a  passion  of  appre- 
ciation. Out  of  the  waste  and  desert  of  his 
own  life,  with  its  memories  of  the  far  country 
and  the  husks  and  the  swine,  he  seemed  to  be 
looking  through  a  window  at  the  peaceful  life 
—  as  a  hungry,  lonely  tramp  may  limp  to  a 
lamp-lit  window,  and  peering  in,  see  father  and 
mother  and  round-faced  children,  and  the  table 
spread  whitely,  and  the  good  sure  food  that  to 
these  people  is  a  calm  certainty,  like  breathing 
or  sleeping,  not  a  joyous  accident,  or  one  of  the 
great  things  that  man  was  taught  to  pray  for. 
The  tramp  turns  away  with  a  curse  or  a  groan, 
according  to  his  nature,  and  goes  on  his  way 
cursing  or  groaning,   or,  if  the  pinch  be  fierce, 


56  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

he  tries  the  back  door  or  the  unguarded  win- 
dow. With  Robert  the  pang  of  longing  was 
keen,  and  he  was  minded  to  try  any  door  —  not 
to  beg  for  the  broken  meats  of  cousinly  kind- 
ness, but  to  enter  as  master  into  that  "better 
place  '■  wherein  Dorothea  had  found  so  little  of 
Paradise. 

It  was  no  matter  of  worldly  gain.  The 
Prodigal  had  not  wasted  his  material  substance 
on  the  cheap  husks  that  cost  so  dear.  He  had 
money  enough  and  to  spare :  it  was  in  peace 
and  the  dignity  of  life  that  he  now  found 
himself  to  be  bankrupt. 

As  for  Dorothea,  when  she  brushed  her  long 
pale  hair  that  night  she  found  that  her  hands 
were  not  so  steady  as  usual,  and  in  the  morning 
she  was  quite  shocked  to  note  that  she  had 
laid  her  hair-pins  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
pin-cushion  instead  of  on  the  right,  a  thing  she 
had  not  done  for  years. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  a  week,  a  week  of  long 
sunny  days  and  dewy  dark  evenings  spent  in 
the  atmosphere  that  had  enslaved  him.  Dinner 
was  over.  Robert  had  smoked  his  cigar  among 
the  garden's  lengthening  shadows.     Now  he  and 


THE   LIE   ABSOLUTE  67 

Dorothea  were  at  the  window  watching  the 
light  of  life  die  beautifully  on  the  changing  face 
of  the  sky. 

They  had  talked  as  this  week  had  taught 
them  to  talk  —  with  the  intimacy  of  old  friends 
and  the  mutual  interest  of  new  unexplored  ac- 
quaintances. This  is  the  talk  that  does  not 
weary  —  the  talk  that  can  only  be  kept  alive 
by  the  daring  of  revelation,  and  the  stronger 
courage  of  unconquerable  reserve. 

Now  there  came  a  silence  —  with  it  seemed 
to  come  the  moment.     Robert  spoke  — 

"  Dorothea,"  he  said,  and  her  mind  pricked 
its  ears  suspiciously  because  he  had  not  called 
her  Dolly. 

«  Well  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  if  you  understand  what  these  days 
have  been  to  me  ?  I  was  so  tired  of  the  world 
and  its  follies  —  this  is  like  some  calm  haven 
after  a  stormy  sea." 

The  words  seemed  strangely  familiar.  He 
had  a  grating  sense  of  talking  like  a  book,  and 
something  within  him  sneered  at  the  scruple, 
and  said  that  Dolly  would  not  notice  it. 

But  she  said :  "  I'm  sure  I've  read  something 


58  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

like  that  in  a  school  reading  book,  but  it's 
very  touching,  of  course." 

"  Oh  —  if  you're  going  to  mock  my  holiest 
sentiments,"  he  said  lightly  —  and  withdrew 
from  the  attack. 

The  moment  seemed  to  flutter  near  again 
when  she  said  good  night  to  him  in  the  porch 
where  the  violet  clematis  swung  against  his  head 
as  he  stood.  This  time  his  opening  was  better 
inspired. 

"  Dolly,  dear,"  he  said,  "  how  am  I  ever  to  go 
away  ?  " 

Her  heart  leaped  against  her  side,  for  his  tone 
was  tender.  But  so  may  a  cousin's  tone  be  — 
even  a  second  cousin's,  and  when  one  is  thirty- 
five  she  has  little  to  fear  from  the  pitying  ten- 
derness of  her  relations. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  liked  being  here," 
she  said  sedately.  "  You  must  come  again  some 
time." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  away  at  all,"  he  said. 
"Dolly,  won't  you  let  me  stay  —  won't  you 
marry  me  ?  " 

Almost  as  he  took  her  hand  she  snatched  it 
from  him. 


THE   LIE   ABSOLUTE  59 

"  You  must  be  mad  !  "  she  said.  "  Why  on 
earth  should  you  want  to  marry  me  ?  "  Also 
she  said :  "  I  am  old  and  plain,  and  you  don't 
love  me."     But  she  said  it  to  herself. 

"  I  do  want  it,"  he  said,  "  and  I  want  it  more 
than  I  want  anything." 

His  tone  was  convincing. 

"  But  why  ?  but  why  ?  " 

An  impulse  of  truth-telling  came  to  Robert. 

"  Because  it's  all  so  beautiful,"  he  said  with 
straightforward  enthusiasm.  "  All  your  lovely 
quiet  life  —  and  the  house,  and  these  old  gardens, 
and  the  dainty,  delicate,  firm  way  you  have  of 
managing  everything  —  the  whole  thing's  my 
ideal.  It's  perfect  —  I  can't  bear  any  other 
life." 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to,"  she  said  with 
bitter  decision.  "  I  am  not  going  to  marry  a 
man  just  because  he  admires  my  house  and 
garden,  and  is  good  enough  to  appreciate  my 
methods  of  household  management.  Good 
night." 

She  had  shaken  his  hand  coolly  and  shut  the 
front  door  from  within  before  he  could  find  a 
word.     He  found  one  as  the  latch  clicked. 


60  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Fool ! "  he  said  to  himself,  and  stamped  his 
foot. 

Dorothea  ran  up  the  stairs  two  at  a  time  to 
say  the  same  word  to  herself  in  the  stillness  of 
her  bedroom. 

"  Fool  —  fool  —  fool  !  "  she  said.  "  Why 
couldn't  I  have  said  '  No '  quietly  ?  Why  did 
I  let  him  see  I  was  angry  ?  Why  should  I  be 
angry  ?  It's  better  to  be  wanted  because  you're 
a  good  manager  than  not  to  be  wanted  at  all. 
At  least,  I  suppose  it  is.  No  —  it  isnH!  it  isn't! 
it  isn't !  And  nothing's  any  use  now\  It's  all 
gone.  If  he'd  wanted  to  marry  me  when  I  was 
young  and  pretty  I  could  have  made  him  love 
me.  And  I  was  pretty  —  I  know  I  was  —  I  can 
remember  it  perfectly  well !  " 

Her  quiet  years  had  taken  from  her  no  least 
little  touch  of  girlish  sentiment.  The  longing  to 
be  loved  was  as  keen  in  her  as  it  had  been  at 
twenty.  She  cried  herself  to  sleep,  and  had  a 
headache  the  next  day.  Also  her  eyes  looked 
smaller  than  usual  and  her  nose  was  pink.  She 
went  and  sat  in  the  black  shade  of  a  yew,  and 
trusted  that  in  that  deep  shadow  her  eyes  and 
nose  would  not  make  Robert  feel  glad  that  she 


THE   LIE   ABSOLUTE  61 

had  said  "  No."  She  wished  him  to  be  sorry. 
She  had  put  on  the  prettiest  gown  she  had,  in 
the  hope  that  he  would  be  sorry  ;  then  she  was 
ashamed  of  the  impulse ;  also  its  pale  clear 
greenness  seemed  to  intensify  the  pinkness  of  her 
nose.  So  she  went  back  to  the  trailing  grey 
gown.  Her  wearing  of  her  best  Honiton  lace 
collar  seemed  pardonable.  He  would  never  no- 
tice it  —  or  know  that  real  lace  is  more  becom- 
ing than  anything  else.  She  waited  for  him  in 
the  deep  shadow,  and  it  was  all  the  morning 
that  she  waited.  For  he  knew  the  value  of  sus- 
pense, and  he  had  not  the  generosity  that  disdains 
the  use  of  the  obvious  weapon.  He  was  right  so 
far,  that  before  he  came  she  had  had  time  to 
wonder  whether  it  was  her  life's  one  chance 
of  happiness  that  she  had  thrown  away.  But  he 
drove  the  knife  home  too  far,  for  when  at  last 
she  heard  the  click  of  the  gate  and  saw  the 
gleam  of  flannels  through  the  shrubbery,  the 
anxious  questioning,  "  Will  he  come  ?  "  "  Have 
I  oifended  him  beyond  recall  ?  "  changed  at  one 
heart-beat  to  an  almost  perfect  understanding 
of  his  reasons  for  delay.  She  greeted  him  coldly. 
That  he  expected.     But  he  saw  —  or  believed  he 


62  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

saw  —  the  relief  under  the  coldness  —  and  he 
brought  up  his  forces  for  the  attack. 

"  Dear,"  he  said  —  almost  at  once  —  "  forgive 
me  for  last  night.  It  was  true,  and  if  I  had 
expressed  it  better  you'd  have  understood.  It 
isn't  just  the  house  and  garden,  and  the  perfect 
life.  It's  you  !  Don't  you  understand  what  it 
is  to  come  back  from  the  world  to  all  this,  and 
you  —  you  —  you  —  the  very  centre  of  the 
star  ?  " 

"  It's  all  very  well,"  she  said,  "  but  that  wasn't 
what  you  said  last  night." 

"  It's  what  I  meant,"  said  he.  "  Dear,  don't 
you  see  how  much  I  want  you  ? " 

«  But  —  I'm  old  —  and  plain,  and  —  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  still  heavy  from 
last  night's  tears,  and  he  experienced  an  unex- 
pected impulse  of  genuine  tenderness. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  when  I  first  remember 
your  mother  she  was  about  your  age.  I  used  to 
think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  person  in  the 
world.  She  seemed  to  shed  happiness  and  peace 
around  her  —  like  —  like  a  lamp  sheds  light. 
And  you  are  just  like  her.  Ah  —  don't  send 
me  away." 


THE   LIE   ABSOLUTE  63 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  struggling  wildly  with 
the  cross  currents  of  emotion  set  up  by  his  words. 
"  Thank  you.  I  have  not  lived  single  all  these 
years  to  be  married  at  last  because  I  happen  to 
be  like  my  mother." 

The  words  seemed  a  treason  to  the  dead,  and 
the  tears  filled  Dorothea's  eyes. 

He  saw  them ;  he  perceived  that  they  ran  in 
worn  channels,  and  the  impulse  of  tenderness 
grew. 

Till  this  moment  he  had  spoken  only  the 
truth.  His  eyes  took  in  the  sunny  lawn  beyond 
the  yew  shadow,  the  still  house  :  the  whir  of  the 
lawn-mower  was  music  at  once  pastoral  and 
patriotic.  He  heard  the  break  in  her  voice ;  he 
saw  the  girlish  grace  of  her  thin  shape,  the 
pathetic  charm  of  her  wistful  mouth.  And  he 
lied  with  a  good  heart. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  with  a  tremble  in  his 
voice  that  sounded  like  passion,  "  my  dear  —  it's 
not  for  that  —  I  love  you,  Dolly  —  I  think  I 
must  have  loved  you  all  my  life  !  " 

And  at  the  light  that  leaped  into  her  eyes  he 
suddenly  felt  that  this  lie  was  nearer  truth  than 
he  had  known. 


64  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  I  love  you,  dear  —  I  love  you,"  he  repeated, 
and  the  w^ords  v^ere  oddly  pleasant  to  say. 
"  Won't  you  love  me  a  little,  too  ?  " 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She 
could  no  more  have  doubted  him  than  she  could 
have  doubted  the  God  to  whom  she  had  prayed 
night  and  morning  for  all  these  lonely  years. 

"  Love  you  a  little  ?  "  she  said  softly.  "  Ah  ! 
Robert,  don't  you  know  that  I've  loved  you  all 
my  life  ?  " 

So  a  lie  won  what  truth  could  not  gain.  And 
the  odd  thing  is  that  the  lie  has  now  grown 
quite  true,  and  he  really  believes  that  he  has 
always  loved  her,  just  as  he  certainly  loves  her 
now.  For  some  lies  come  true  in  the  telling. 
But  most  of  them  do  not,  and  it  is  not  wise  to 
try  experiments. 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GUITAR 

THE  last  strains  of  the  ill-treated,  ill-fated 
"  Intermezzo "  had  died  away,  and  after 
them  had  died  away  also  the  rumbling  of  the 
wheels  of  the  murderous  barrel-organ  that  had 
so  gaily  executed  that,  along  with  the  nine  other 
tunes  of  its  repertory,  to  the  admiration  of  the 
housemaid  at  the  window  of  the  house  opposite, 
and  the  crowing  delight  of  the  two  babies  next 
door. 

The  young  man  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief, 
and  lighted  the  wax  candles  in  the  solid  silver 
candlesticks  on  his  writing-table,  for  now  the 
late  summer  dusk  was  falling,  and  that  organ, 
please  Heaven,  made  full  the  measure  of  the 
day's  appointed  torture.  There  had  been  five 
organs  since  dinner  —  and  seven  in  the  after- 
noon —  one  and  all  urgently  thumping  their 
heavy  melodies  into  his  brain,  to  the  confusion 
of  the  thoughts  that  waited  there,  eager  to  mar- 

F  65 


66  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

shal  themselves,  orderly  and  firm,  into  the 
phalanx  of  an  article  on  "  The  Decadence  of 
Criticism." 

He  filled  his  pipe,  drew  paper  towards  him, 
dipped  his  pen,  and  wrote  his  title  on  the  blank 
page.  The  silence  came  round  him,  soothing 
as  a  beloved  presence,  the  scent  of  the  may 
bushes  in  the  suburban  gardens  stole  in  pleas- 
antly through  the  open  windows.  After  all, 
it  was  a  "  quiet  neighbourhood "  as  the  adver- 
tisement had  said  —  at  any  rate,  in  the  evening : 
and  in  the  evening  a  man's  best  efforts  — 

Thrum^  tum,  tum  —  Thrum^  tum,  turn  came 
the  defiant  strumming  of  a  guitar  close  to  the 
window.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  —  this  was, 
indeed,  too  much  !  But  before  he  could  draw 
back  the  curtains  and  express  himself  to  the 
intruder,  the  humming  of  the  guitar  was  domi- 
nated by  the  first  words  of  a  song  — 

"  Oh  picerella  del  vieni  al'  mare 

Nella  barchetta  veletto  di  fiore 
La  biancha  prora  somiglia  al'  altare 
Tutte  le  stelle  favellan  d'  amor," 

and  so  forth.  The  performer  was  evidently 
singing   "  under  her  voice,"  but  the  effect  was 


THE   GIRL   WITH    THE   GUITAR  67 

charming.  He  stood  with  his  hand  on  the 
curtain,  listening  —  and  with  a  pleasure  that 
astonished  him.  The  song  came  to  an  end  with 
a  chord  in  which  all  the  strings  twanged  their 
best.  Then  there  was  silence  —  then  a  sigh, 
and  the  sound  of  light  moving  feet  on  the 
gravel.  He  threw  back  the  curtain  and  leaned 
out  of  the  window. 

"  Here ! "  he  called  to  the  figure  that  moved 
slowly  towards  the  gate.  She  turned  quickly, 
and  came  back  two  steps.  She  wore  the  dress 
of  a  Contadina,  a  very  smart  dress  indeed,  and 
her  hands  looked  small  and  white. 

"  Won't  you  sing  again  ?  "  he  .asked. 

She  hesitated,  then  struck  a  chord  or  two  and 
began  another  of  those  little  tuneful  Italian 
songs,  all  stars  and  flowers  and  hearts  of  gold. 
And  again  he  listened  with  a  quiet  pleasure. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  her  voice  at  its  full 
strength,"  he  thought  —  and  now  it  was  time  to 
give  the  vagrant  a  few  coppers,  and,  shutting  the 
window,  to  leave  her  to  go  on  to  the  next  front 
garden. 

Never  had  any  act  seemed  so  impossible.  He 
had  watched  her  through  the  singing  of  this  last 


68  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

song,  and  he  had  grown  aware  of  the  beauty  of 
her  face's  oval  —  of  the  fine  poise  of  her  head  — 
and  of  the  grace  of  hands  and  arms. 

"  Aren't  you  tired  ?  "  he  said.  ''  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  sit  down  and  rest  ?  There  is  a  seat  in 
the  garden  at  the  side  of  the  house." 

Again  she  hesitated.  Then  she  turned  towards 
the  quarter  indicated  and  disappeared  round  the 
laurel  bushes. 

He  was  alone  in  the  house  —  his  people  and 
the  servants  were  in  the  country ;  the  woman 
who  came  to  "do  for  him "  had  left  for  the 
night.  He  went  into  the  dining-room,  dark  with 
mahogany  and  damask,  found  wine  and  cake  in 
the  sideboard  cupboard,  put  them  on  a  tray,  and 
took  them  out  through  the  garden  door  and  round 
to  the  corner  where,  almost  sheltered  by  labur- 
nums and  hawthorns  from  the  view  of  the  people 
next  door,  the  singer  and  her  guitar  rested  on 
the  iron  seat. 

"  I  have  brought  you  some  wine  —  will  you 
have  it?" 

Again  that  strange  hesitation  —  then  quite 
suddenly  the  girl  put  her  hands  up  to  her  face 
and  began  to  cry. 


GIRL   WITH   THE   GUITAR  69 


"  Here  —  I  sa}^,  you  know  —  don't  —  "  he 
said.  "  Oh,  Lord !  This  is  awful.  I  hardly 
know  a  w^ord  of  Italian,  and  apparently  she  has 
no  English.  Here,  signorina,  ecco,  prendi  — 
vino — gatto —  No,  gatto's  a  cat.  I  was  thinking 
of  French.     Oh,  Lord  !  " 

The  Contadina  had  pulled  out  a  very  small 
handkerchief,  and  was  drying  her  eyes  with  it. 
She  rose. 

"No  —  don't  go,"  he  said  eagerly.  "I  can  see 
you  are  tired  out.  Sai  fatiguee  non  e  vero  ?  lo 
non  parlate  Italiano,  sed  vino  habet,  et  cake  ante 
vous  partez." 

She  looked  at  him  and  spoke  for  the  first 
time. 

"  It  serves  me  right,"  she  said  in  excellent, 
yet  unfamiliar,  English.  "  I  don't  understand 
a  single  word  you  say  !  I  might  have  known 
I  couldn't  do  it,  though  it's  just  what  girls  in 
books  would  do.  It  would  have  turned  out  all 
right  with  them.  Let  me  go  —  thank  you  very 
much.  I  am  sure  you  meant  to  be  kind."  And 
then  she  began  to  cry  again. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  this  is  all  nonsense, 
you    know.     You    are    tired    out  —  and    there's 


70  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

something  wrong.  What  is  it  ?  Do  drink  this, 
and  then  tell  me.     Perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

She  drank  obediently.  Then  she  said :  "  I 
have  not  had  anything  to  eat  since  last 
night  —  " 

He  hurriedly  cut  cake  and  pressed  it  upon 
her.  He  had  no  time  to  think,  but  he  was 
aware  that  this  was  the  most  exciting  adven- 
ture that  had  ever  happened  to  him. 

"  It's  no  use  —  and  it  all  sounds  so  silly." 

«  Ah  —  but  do  tell  me  !  "  His  voice  was 
kinder  than  he  meant  it  to  be.  Her  eyes  filled 
again  with  tears. 

"  You  don't  know  how  horrid  everyone  has 
been.  Oh  —  I  never  knew  before  what  devils 
people  are  to  you  when  you're  poor  — " 

"  Is  it  only  that  you're  poor  ?  Why,  that's 
nothing.     I'm  poor,  too." 

She  laughed.     "  I'm  not  poor  —  not  really." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  You've  quarrelled  with 
your  friends,  and  —  Ah,  tell  me  —  and  let  me 
try  to  help  you." 

"You  are  kind  —  but —  Well,  then  —  it's 
like  this.  My  father  brought  me  to  England 
from  the  States  a  month  ago :  he's   '  made  his 


THE   GIRL   WITH    THE   GUITAR  71 

pile ' :  it  was  in  pork,  and  I  always  wish  he'd 
made  it  of  something  else,  even  canned  fruit 
would  be  better,  but  that  doesn't  matter —  We 
didn't  know  anyone  here,  of  course,  and  directly 
we  got  here,  he  was  wired  for  —  business  —  and 
he  had  to  go  home  again." 

"But  surely  he  didn't  leave  you  without 
money." 

Her  little  foot  tapped  the  gravel  impatiently. 

"  I'm  coming  to  that,"  slie  said.  "  Of  course 
he  didn't.  He  told  me  to  stay  on  at  the  hotel, 
and  I  did  —  and  then  one  night  when  I  was  at 
the  theatre  my  maid  —  a  horrid  French  thing 
we  got  in  Paris  —  packed  up  all  my  trunks  and 
took  all  my  money,  and  paid  the  bill,  and  went. 
The  hotel  folks  let  her  go  —  I  can't  think  how 
people  can  be  so  silly.  But  they  wouldn't  let 
me  stay,  and  I  wired  to  papa  —  and  there  was 
no  answer,  and  I  don't  know  w^iatever's  the 
matter  with  him.  I  know  it  all  sounds  as  if  I 
was  making  it  up  as  I  go  along  —  " 

She  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  him  through 
the  dusk.  He  did  not  speak,  but  whatever  she 
saw  in  his  face  it  satisfied  her.  She  said  again : 
"  You  are  kind." 


72  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  all  about  it." 
"  Well,  then,  I  went  into  lodgings ;  that 
wicked  woman  had  left  me  one  street  suit  —  and 
to-day  they  turned  me  out  because  my  money 
was  all  gone.  I  had  a  little  money  in  my  purse 
—  and  this  dress  had  been  ordered  for  a  fancy 
ball  —  it  is  smart,  isn't  it  ?  —  and  it  came  after 
that  wretch  had  gone  —  and  the  guitar,  too  — 
and  I  thought  I  could  make  a  little  money.  I 
really  can  sing,  though  you  mightn't  think  it. 
And  I've  been  at  it  since  five  o'clock  —  and  I've 
only  got  one  shilling  and  seven  pence.  And  no 
one  but  you  has  ever  even  thought  of  thinking 
whether  I  was  tired  or  hungry  or  anything  — 
and  papa  always  took  such  care  of  me.  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  been  beaten." 

"  Let  me  think,"  he  said.  "  Oh  —  how  glad  I 
am  that  you  happened  to  come  this  way." 
He  reflected  a  moment.  Then  he  said  — 
"  I  shall  lock  up  all  the  doors  and  windows  in 
the  house  —  and  then  I  shall  give  you  my  latch- 
key, and  you  can  let  yourself  in  and  stay  the 
night  here  —  there  is  no  one  in  the  house.  I  will 
catch  the  night  train,  and  bring  my  mother  up 
to-morrow.  Then  we  will  see  what  can  be 
done." 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GUITAR  73 

The  only  excuse  for  this  rash  young  man  is  to 
be  found  in  the  fact  that  while  he  was  feeding 
his  strange  guest  with  cake  and  wine  she  was 
feeding,  with  her  beauty,  the  first  fire  of  his  first 
love.  Love  at  first  sight  is  all  nonsense,  we 
know  —  we  who  have  come  to  forty  year  —  but 
at  twenty-one  one  does  not  somehow  recognise  it 
for  the  nonsense  it  is. 

"  But  don't  you  know  anyone  in  London  ? " 
he  asked  in  a  sensible  postscript. 

It  was  not  yet  so  dark  but  that  he  could  see 
the  crimson  flush  on  her  face. 

"Not  'know^^  she  said.  "Papa  wouldn't  like 
me  to  spoil  my  chances  of  knowing  the  right 
people  with  any  foolishness  like  this.  There's 
no  one  I  could  let  know.  You  see,  papa's  so  very 
rich,  and  at  home  they  expect  me  to  —  to  get 
acquainted  with  dukes  and  things  —  and  — " 

She  stopped. 

"  American  heiresses  are  expected  to  marry 
English  dukes,"  he  said,  with  a  distinct  physical 
pain  at  his  heart. 

"  It  wasn't  I  who  said  that,"  said  the  girl, 
smiling;  "but  that's  so,  anyhow."  And  then 
she  sighed. 


74  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  So  it's  your  destiny  to  marry  a  duke,  is  it  ?  " 
the  young  man  spoke  slowly.  "  All  the  same," 
he  added  irrelevantly,  "  you  shall  have  the  latch- 
key." 

"  You  are  kind,"  she  said  for  the  third  time, 
and  reached  her  hand  out  to  him.  He  did  not 
kiss  it  then,  only  took  it  in  his,  and  felt  how 
small  and  cold  it  was.     Then  it  was  taken  away. 

He  says  that  he  only  talked  to  her  for  half  an 
hour  —  but  the  neighbours,  from  whose  eyes 
suburban  hawthorns  and  laburnums  are  power- 
less to  conceal  the  least  of  our  actions,  declare 
that  he  sat  with  the  guitar  player  on  the  iron 
seat  till  well  after  midnight ;  further,  that  when 
they  parted  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  that  she 
then  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  — ''  quite 
shamelessly,  you  know "  —  and  kissed  him 
lightly  on  both  cheeks.  It  is  known  that  he 
passed  the  night  prowling  in  our  suburban  lanes, 
and  caught  the  6.25  train  in  the  morning  to  the 
place  where  his  people  were  staying. 

The  lady  and  the  guitar  certainly  passed  the 
night  at  Hill  View  Villa,  but  when  his  mother, 
very  angry  and  very  frightened,  came  up  with 
him    at   about  noon,  the  house  looked  just  as 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GUITAR  75 

usual,  and  no  one  was  there  but  the  char- 
woman. 

"  An  adventuress  !  I  told  you  so  !  "  said  his 
mother  at  once  —  and  the  young  man  sat  down 
at  his  study  table  and  looked  at  the  title  of  his 
article  on  "  The  Decadence  of  Criticism."  It 
was  surely  a  very  long  time  ago  that  he  had 
written  that.  And  he  sat  there  thinking,  till  his 
mother's  voice  roused  him. 

"  The  silver  is  all  right,  thank  goodness,"  she 
said,  "but  your  banjo  girl  has  taken  a  pair  of 
your  sister's  silk  stockings,  and  those  new  shoes 
of  hers  with  the  silver  buckles  —  and  she's  left 
iheseP 

She  held  out  a  pair  of  little  patent  leather 
shoes,  very  worn  and  dusty  —  the  slender  silken 
web  of  a  black  stocking,  brown  with  dust,  hung 
from  her  hand.  He  answered  nothing.  She 
spent  the  rest  of  that  day  in  searching  the  house 
for  further  losses,  but  all  things  were  in  their 
place,  except  the  silver-handled  button-hook  — 
and  that,  as  even  his  sister  owned,  had  been 
missing  for  months. 

Yet  his  family  would  never  leave  him  to  keep 
house  alone  again :   they  said    he  is  not  to  be 


76  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

trusted.  And  perhaps  they  are  right.  The  half 
dozen  pairs  of  embroidered  silk  stockings  and 
the   dainty   French    silver-buckled   shoes,   which 

arrived  a  month  later  addressed  to  Miss  , 

Hill  View  Villa,  only  confirmed  their  distrust. 
He  must  have  had  them  sent  —  that  tambourine 
girl  could  never  have  afforded  these  —  why,  they 
were  pure  silk  —  and  the  quality  !  It  was  plain 
that  his  Castanet  girl  —  his  mother  and  sister 
took  a  pleasure  in  crediting  her  daily  with  some 
fresh  and  unpleasing  instrument  —  could  have 
had  neither  taste,  money,  nor  honesty  to  such  a 
point  as  this. 

As  for  the  young  man,  he  bore  it  all  very 
meekly,  only  he  was  glad  when  his  essays  on 
the  decadence  of  things  in  general  led  to  a  berth 
on  the  staff  of  a  big  daily,  and  made  it  possible 
for  him  to  take  rooms  in  town  —  because  he  had 
grown  weary  of  living  with  his  family,  and  of 
hearing  so  constantly  that  She  played  the  bones 
and  the  big  drum  and  the  concertina,  and  that 
She  was  a  twopenny  adventuress  who  stole  his 
sister's  shoes  and  stockings.  He  prefers  to  sit 
in  his  quiet  room  in  the  Temple,  and  to  remem- 
ber that  she  played  the  guitar  and  sang  sweetly 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GUITAR  77 

—  that  she  had  a  mouth  like  a  tired  child's 
mouth,  that  her  eyes  were  like  stars,  and  that 
she  kissed  him  —  on  both  cheeks  —  and  that  he 
kissed  —  her  hand  only  —  as  the  scandalised 
suburb   knows. 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE   BOOTS 

A  YOUNG  man  with  a  little  genius,  a  gift  of 
literary  expression,  and  a  distaste  not 
only  for  dissipation,  but  for  the  high-toned  social 
functions  of  his  suburban  acquaintances,  may  go 
far  —  once  he  has  chosen  journalism  for  a  pro- 
fession, and  has  realised  that  to  success  in  any 
profession  a  heart-whole  service  is  necessary.  A 
certain  young  man,  having  been  kissed  in  his 
own  garden  by  a  girl  with  a  guitar,  ceased  to 
care  for  evening  parties,  and  devoted  himself 
steadily  to  work.  His  relaxations  were  rowing 
down  the  Thames  among  the  shipping,  and 
thinking  of  the  girl.  In  two  years  he  was  sent 
to  Paris  by  the  Thunderer  —  to  ferret  out  infor- 
mation about  a  certain  financial  naughtiness 
which  threatened  a  trusting  public  in  general, 
and,  in  particular,  a  little  band  of  blameless 
English  shareholders. 

79 


80  THE    LITERARY    SENSE 

The  details  of  the  scheme  are  impertinent  to 
the  present  narrative. 

The  yomig  man  went  to  Paris  and  began  to 
enjoy  himself. 

He  had  good  introductions.  He  had  once 
done  a  similar  piece  of  business  before  —  but 
then  luck  aided  him.  As  I  said,  he  enjoyed 
himself,  but  he  did  not  see  his  way  to  accom- 
plishing his  mission.  But  his  luck  stood  by 
him,  as  you  will  see,  in  a  very  remarkable  man- 
ner. At  a  masked  ball  he  met  a  veiy  charming 
Corsican  lady.  She  was  dressed  as  a  nun,  but 
the  eyes  that  sparkled  through  her  mask  might 
have  taxed  the  resources  of  the  most  competent 
abbess.  She  spoke  very  agreeable  English,  and 
she  was  very  kind  to  the  young  man,  indicated 
the  celebrities  —  she  seemed  to  know  everyone 
—  whom  she  recognised  quite  easily  in  their 
carnival  disguises,  and  at  last  she  did  him  the 
kindness  to  point  out  a  stout  cardinal,  and 
named  the  name  of  the  very  Jew  who  was 
pulling  the  strings  of  the  very  business  which 
had  brought  the  young  man  to  Paris. 

The  young  man's  lucky  star  shone  full  on  him, 
and  dazzled  him  to  a  seeming  indiscretion. 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE   BOOTS  81 

"  He  looks  rather  a  beast,"  he  said. 

The  nun  clapped  her  hands. 

a  Oh  —  he  is  /  "  she  said.  "  If  you  knew  all 
that  I  could  tell  you  about  him ! " 

It  was  with  the  distinct  idea  of  knowing  all 
that  the  lady  could  tell  about  the  Jew  that  our 
hero  devoted  himself  to  her  throughout  that  even- 
ing, and  promised  to  call  on  her  the  next  day. 
He  made  himself  very  amiable  indeed,  and  if 
you  think  that  he  should  not  have  done  this, 
I  can  only  say  that  I  am  sorry,  but  facts  are 
facts. 

When  he  put  her  into  her  carriage  —  a  very 
pretty  little  brougham  —  he  kissed  her  hand. 
He  did  not  do  this  because  he  desired  to  do 
it,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Girl  with  the  Guitar, 
but  purely  as  a  matter  of  business.  If  you 
blame  him  here  I  can  only  say  "  a  la  guerre 
comme  a  la  guerre  —  " 

Next  day  he  called  on  her.  She  received  him 
in  a  charming  yellow  silk  boudoir  and  gave  him 
tea  and  sweets.  Unmasked,  the  lady  was  seen 
to  be  of  uncommon  beauty.  He  did  not  make 
love  to  her  —  but  he  was  very  nice,  and  she 
asked  him  to  come  again. 


82  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

It  was  at  their  third  interview  that  his  star 
shone  again,  and  again  dazzled  him  to  indiscreet- 
ness.  He  told  the  beautiful  lady  exactly  why 
he  wanted  to  know  all  that  she  could  tell  him 
about  the  Jew  financier.  The  beautiful  lady 
clapped  her  hands  till  all  her  gold  bangles 
rattled  musically,  and  said  — 

"  But  I  will  tell  you  all  —  everything  !  I  felt 
that  you  wished  to  know  —  but  I  thought  .  .  . 
however  .  .  .  are  you  sure  it  will  all  be  in  your 
paper  ?  " 

"  But  yes,  Madame  !  "  said  he. 

Then  she  folded  her  hands  on  the  greeny 
satin  lap  of  her  tea-gown,  and  told  him  many 
things.  And  as  she  spoke  he  pieced  things  to- 
gether, and  was  aware  that  she  spoke  the 
truth. 

When  she  had  finished  speaking,  his  mission 
was  almost  accomplished.  His  luck  had  done 
all  this  for  him.  The  lady  promised  even  docu- 
ments and  evidence.  Then  he  thanked  her,  and 
she  said  — 

"  No  thanks,  please.  I  suppose  this  will  ruin 
him  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  will,"  said  he. 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE   BOOTS  83 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  contentment. 

"  But  why  —  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  mind,  somehow,  telling  you  any- 
thing," she  said,  and  indeed  as  it  seemed  with 
some  truth.  "  He  —  he  did  me  the  honour  to 
admire  me  —  and  now  he  has  behaved  like  the 
pig  he  is." 

"  And  so  you  have  betrayed  him  —  told 
me  the  things  he  told  you  when  he  loved 
you?" 

She  snapped  her  fingers,  and  the  opals  and 
rubies  of  her  rings  shone  like  fire. 

"  Love  !  "  she  said  scornfully. 

Then  he  began  to  be  a  little  ashamed  and 
sorry  for  his  part  in  this  adventure,  and  he 
said  so. 

"•  Ah  —  don't  be  sorry,"  she  said  softly.  "  I 
wanted  to  betray  him.  I  was  simply  longing  to 
do  it  —  only  I  couldn't  think  of  the  right  person 
to  betray  him  to  !  But  you  are  the  right  per- 
son, Monsieur.     I  am  indeed  fortunate  !  " 

A  little  shiver  ran  through  him.  But  he  had 
gone  too  far  to  retreat. 

"  And  the  documents,  Madame  ?  " 

"  I  will  give  you  them  to-morrow.     There  is  a 


84  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

ball  at  the  American  Embassy.  I  can  get  you  a 
card." 

"  I  have  one."  He  had  indeed  made  it  his  first 
business  to  get  one  —  was  not  the  Girl  with  the 
Guitar  an  American,  and  could  he  dare  to  waste 
the  least  light  chance  of  seeing  her  again  ? 

''  Well  —  be  there  at  twelve,  and  you  shall  have 
everything.  But,"  she  looked  sidelong  at  him, 
"  will  Monsieur  be  very  kind  —  very  attentive  — 
in  short,  devote  himself  to  me  —  for  this  one 
evening  ?     He  will  be  there." 

He  murmured  something  banal  about  the 
devotion  of  a  lifetime,  and  went  away  to  his 
lodging  in  a  remote  suburb,  which  he  had  chosen 
because  he  loved  boating. 

The  next  night  at  twelve  saw  him  lounging,  a 
gloomy  figure,  on  a  seat  in  an  ante-room  at  the 
Embassy.  He  knew  that  the  Lady  was  within, 
yet  he  could  not  go  to  her.  He  sat  there  de- 
spairingly, trying  to  hope  that  even  now  some- 
thing might  happen  to  save  him.  Yet,  as  it 
seemed,  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  could.  But 
his  star  shone,  and  the  miracle  happened.  For, 
as  he  sat,  a  radiant  vision,  all  white  lace  and 
diamonds,  detached  itself   from    the   arm    of  a 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BOOTS       85 

grey-bearcled  gentleman,  and  floated  towards 
him. 

"  It  is  you  !  "  said  the  darling  vision,  and  the 
next  moment  his  hands  —  both  hands  —  were 
warmly  clasped  by  little  white-gloved  ones,  and 
he  was  standing  looking  into  the  eyes  of  the 
Girl. 

"  I  knew  I  should  see  you  somewhere  —  this 
continent  is  so  tiny,"  she  said.  "  Come  right 
along  and  be  introduced  to  Papa  —  that's  him 
over  there." 

"I  —  I  can't,"  he  answered,  in  an  agony.     "  I 

—  my  pocket's  been  picked  —  " 

"  Do  tell !  "  said  the  Girl,  laughing ;  "  but 
Papa  doesn't  want  tipping  —  he's  got  all  he 
wants  —  come  right  along." 

"  I  can't,"  he  said,  hoarse  with  the  misery  of 
the  degrading  confession;  "it  wasn't  my  money 

—  it  was  my  shoes.  I  came  up  in  boots,  brown 
boots ;  distant  suburb  ;  train ;  my  shoes  were  in 
my  overcoat  pocket  —  I  meant  to  change  in  the 
cab.  I  must  have  dropped  them  or  they  were 
taken  out.  And  here  I  am  in  these  things." 
He  looked  down  at  his  bright  brown  boots. 
"  And  all  the  shops  are  shut  —  and  my  whole 


86  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

future  depends  on  my  getting  into  that  room 
within  the  next  half-hour.  But  never  mind ! 
Why  should  you  bother  ?  —  Besides,  what  does 
it  matter  ?  I've  seen  you  again.  You'll  speak 
to  me  as  you  come  back  ?  I'll  wait  all  night  for 
a  word." 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,"  said  the  Girl ;  but  she 
smiled  very  prettily,  and  her  dear  eyes  sparkled. 
<'  If  it's  really  important,  I'll  fix  it  for  you  ! 
But  why  does  your  future  depend  on  it,  and 
all  that?" 

"  I  have  to  meet  a  lady,"  said  the  wretched 
young  man. 

"  The  one  you  were  with  at  the  masked  ball  ? 
The  nun  ?  Yes  —  I  made  Papa  take  me.  1% 
it  that  one  ? "  Her  tone  was  imperious,  but  it 
was  anxious  too. 

He  looked  imploringly  at  her.     "  Yes,  but  —  " 

"  You  shall  have  the  shoes,  all  the  same,"  she 
interrupted,  and  turned  away  before  he  could 
add  a  word. 

A  moment  later  the  grey-bearded  gentleman 
was  bowing  to  him. 

"  My  girl  tells  me  you're  in  a  corner  for  want 
of  shoes.  Sir.     Mine  are   at  your  service  —  w^e 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE   BOOTS  87 

seem  about  of  a  size  —  we   can   change  behind 
that  pillar." 

"  But,"  stammered  the  young  man,  "  it's  too 
much  —  I  can't  —  " 

"  It's  nothing  at  all,  Sir,"  said  the  man  with 
the  grey  beard  warmly ;  "  nothing  compared  to 
the  way  you  stood  by  my  girl !  Shake  !  John 
B.  Warner  don't  forget." 

"  I  can't  thank  you,"  said  the  other,  when 
they  had  shaken  hands.  "If  you  will  —  just 
for  a  short  time !  I'll  be  back  in  half  an 
hour  —  " 

He  was  back  in  two  minutes.  The  first  face 
he  saw  when  he  had  made  his  duty  bows  was 
the  face  of  the  Beautiful  Lady.  She  was 
radiant :  and  beside  her  stood  her  Jew,  also 
radiant.  They  had  made  it  ujp.  And  what  is 
more  —  though  he  never  knew  it  —  they  had 
made  it  up  in  that  half-hour  of  delay  caused 
by  the  Boots.  The  Lady  passed  our  hero  with- 
out a  word  or  even  a  glance  to  acknowledge 
acquaintanceship,  and  he  saw  that  the  game 
was  absolutely  up.  He  swore  under  his  breath. 
But  the  next  moment  he  laughed  to  himself 
with  a  free   heart.      After  all  —  for  any  docu- 


88  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

ments,  any  evidence,  for  any  success  in  any 
walk  of  life,  how  could  he  have  borne  to  de- 
vote himself,  as  he  had  promised  to  do,  to  that 
Corsican  lady,  while  the  Girl,  the  Girl,  was  in 
the  room  ?  And  he  perceived  now  that  he 
should  not  even  use  the  information  he  already 
had.  It  did  not  seem  fitting  that  one  to  whom 
the  Girl  stooped  to  speak,  for  ever  so  brief  a 
moment,  should  play  the  part  of  a  spy  —  in 
however  good  a  cause. 

"  Back  already  ? "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Thank  you  —  my  business  is  completed." 

The  young  man  resumed  his  brown  boots. 

"  Now,  Papa,"  said  the  Girl,  "  just  go  right 
along  and  do  your  devoirs  in  there  —  and  I'll 
stay  and  talk  to  him  — " 

The  father  went  obediently. 

"  Have  you  quarrelled  with  her,  then  ?  "  asked 
the  Girl,  her  eyes  on  the  diamond  buckles  of 
her  satin  shoes. 

He  told  her  everything  —  or  nearly. 

"  Well,"  she  said  decisively,  "  I'm  glad  you're 
out  of  it,  anyway.  Don't  worry  about  it.  It's 
a  nasty  trade.  Papa'll  find  you  a  berth.  Come 
out  to  the  States  and  edit  one  of  his  papers !  " 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE   BOOTS  89 

"  You  told  me  he  was  a  millionaire !  I  sup- 
pose everything  went  all  right  ?  He  didn't  lose 
his  money  or  anything  ?  "     His  tone  was  wistful. 

"  Not  he  !  You  don't  know  Papa  !  "  said  the 
Girl ;  "  but,  say,  you're  not  going  to  be  too 
proud  to  be  acquainted  with  a  self-made  man  ?  " 

He  didn't  answer. 

"  Say,"  said  she  again,  "  I  don't  take  so  much 
stock  in  dukes  as  I  used  to."  She  laid  a  hand 
on  his  arm. 

"Don't  make  a  fool  of  me,"  said  the  young 
man,  speaking  very  low. 

"  I  w^on't,"  —  her  voice  was  a  caress,  —  "  but 
Papa  shall  make  Something  of  you.  You  don't 
know  Papa !  He  can  make  men's  fortunes  as 
easily  as  other  folks  make  men's  shoes.  And 
he  always  does  what  I  tell  him.  Aren't  you 
glad  to  see  me  again  ?  And  don't  you  re- 
member—  ?"  said  she,  looking  at  him  so 
kindly  that  he  lost  his  head  and  — 

"  Ah  !  haven't  you  forgotten  ?  "  said  he. 

^F  ^p  ^P  ^P  ^P  •X* 

That  is  about  all  there  is  of  the  story.  He 
is  now  a  Something  —  and  he  has  married  the 
Girl.     If  you  think  that  a  young  man  of  com- 


90  THE    LITERARY   SENSE 

paratively  small  income  should  not  marry  the  girl 
he  loves  because  her  father  happens  to  have  made 
money  in  pork,  I  can  only  remind  you  that 
your  opinion  is  not  shared  by  the  bulk  of  our 
English  aristocracy.  And  they  don't  even  bother 
about  the  love,  as  often  as  not. 


THE   SECOND    BEST 

THE  letter  was  brief  and  abrupt. 
"  I  am  in  London.     I  have  just  come  back 
from  Jamaica.     Will  you  come  and  see  me  ?     I 
can  be  in  at  any  time  you  appoint." 

There  was  no  signature,  but  he  knew  the 
handwriting  well  enough.  The  letter  came  to 
him  by  the  morniag  post,  sandwiched  between 
his  tailor's  bill  and  a  catalogue  of  Rare  and 
Choice  Editions. 

He  read  it  twice.  Then  he  got  up  from  the 
breakfast-table,  unlocked  a  drawer,  and  took 
out  a  packet  of  letters  and  a  photograph. 

"  I  ought  to  have  burned  them  long  ago,"  he 
said  ;  "  I'll  burn  them  now."  He  did  burn  them 
but  first  he  read  them  through,  and  as  he  read 
them  he  sighed,  more  than  once.  They  were 
passionate,  pretty  letters,  —  the  phrases  simply 
turned,  the  endearments  delicately  chosen.  They 
breathed  of  love  and  constancy  and  faith,  a  faith 

91 


92  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

that  should  move  mountains,  a  love  that  should 
shine  like  gold  in  the  furnace  of  adversity, 
a  constancy  that  death  itself  should  be  power- 
less to  shake.  And  he  sighed.  No  later  love 
had  come  to  draw  with  soft  lips  the  poison 
from  this  old  wound.  She  had  married  Beno- 
liel,  the  West  Indian  Jew.  It  is  a  far  cry 
from  Jamaica  to  London,  but  some  whispers 
had  reached  her  jilted  lover.  The  kindest  of 
them  said  that  Benoliel  neglected  his  wife,  the 
harshest,  that  he  beat  her. 

He  looked  at  the  photograph.  It  was  two 
years  since  he  had  seen  the  living  woman.  Yet 
still,  when  he  shut  his  eyes,  he  could  see  the 
delicate  tints,  the  coral,  and  rose,  and  pearl, 
and  gold  that  went  to  the  making  up  of  her. 
He  could  always  see  these.  And  now  he  should 
see  the  reality.  Would  the  two  years  have 
dulled  that  bright  hair,  withered  at  all  that 
flower-face  ?  For  he  never  doubted  that  he 
must  go  to  her. 

He  was  a  lawyer ;  perhaps  she  wanted  that 
sort  of  help  from  him,  wanted  to  know  how  to 
rid  herself  of  the  bitter  bad  bargain  that  she  had 
made  in  marrying  the  Jew.  Whatever  he  could 
do  he  would,  of  course,  but  — 


THE   SECOND    BEST  93 

He  went  out  at  once  and  sent  a  telegram  to 
her. 

"  Four  to-day." 

And  at  four  o'clock  he  found  himself  on  the 
doorstep  of  a  house  m  Eaton  Square.  He  hated 
the  wealthy  look  of  the  house,  the  footman  who 
opened  the  door,  and  the  thick  carpets  of  the 
stairs  up  which  he  was  led.  He  hated  the  soft 
luxury  of  the  room  in  which  he  was  left  to  wait 
for  her.  Everything  spoke,  decorously  and  with- 
out shouting,  but  with  unmistakable  distinctness, 
of  money,  Benoliel's  money  :  money  that  had  been 
able  to  buy  all  these  beautiful  things,  and,  as  one 
of  them,  to  buy  her. 

She  came  in  quietly.  Long  simple  folds  of 
grey  trailed  after  her :  she  wore  no  ornament  of 
any  kind.  Her  fingers  were  ringless,  every  one. 
He  saw  all  this,  but  before  he  saw  anything  else 
he  saw  that  the  two  years  had  taken  nothing 
from  her  charm,  had  indeed  but  added  a  wistful 
patient  look  that  made  her  seem  more  a  child 
than  when  he  had  last  seen  her. 

The  meaningless  contact  of  their  hands  was 
over,  and  still  neither  had  spoken.  She  was 
looking    at    him     questioningly.       The    silence 


94  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

appeared  silly ;  there  was,  and  there  could  be, 
no  emotion  to  justify,  to  transfigure  it.  He 
spoke. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  he  said. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  lifted  her  eye- 
brows slightly. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  you  are 
looking  just  like  you  used  to."  She  had  the 
tiniest  lisp ;  once  it  had  used  to  charm  him. 

"  You,  too,  are  quite  your  old  self,"  he  said. 
Then  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  say  anything  ?  "  she  said. 

"  It  was  you  who  sent  for  me,"  said  he. 

"  Yes." 

«'  Why  did  you  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you."  She  opened  her 
pretty  child-eyes  at  him,  and  he  noted,  only  to 
bitterly  resent,  the  appeal  in  them.  He  remem- 
bered that  old  appealing  look  too  well. 

"  No,  Madam,"  he  said  inwardly,  "  not  again  ! 
You  can't  whistle  the  dog  to  heel  at  your  will 
and  pleasure.  I  was  a  fool  once,  but  I'm  not 
fool  enough  to  play  the  fool  with  Benoliel's 
wife." 

Aloud  he  said,  smiling  — 


THE   SECOND   BEST  95 

"I  suppose  you  did,  or  you  would  not  have 
written.     And  now  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

She  leaned  forward  to  look  at  him. 

"  Then  you  really  have  forgotten  ?  You  didn't 
grieve  for  me  long !  You  used  to  say  you  would 
never  leave  off  loving  me  as  long  as  you  lived." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Benoliel,"  he  said,  "  if  I  ever 
said  anything  so  thoughtless  as  that,  I  certainly 
Jiave  forgotten  it." 

"  Very  well,"  she  said  ;  "  then  go  !  " 

This  straight  hitting  embarrassed  him  mor- 
tally. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  I've  not  forgotten  that  you 
and  I  were  once  friends  for  a  little  while,  and  I 
do  beg  you  to  consider  me  as  a  friend.  Let  me 
help  you.  You  must  have  some  need  of  a 
friend's  services,  or  you  would  not  have  sent  for 
me.  I  assure  you  I  am  entirely  at  your  com- 
mands.    Come,  tell  me  how  I  can  help  you  —  " 

"  You  can't  help  me  at  all,"  she  said  hope- 
lessly, "  nobody  can  now." 

"  I've  heard  —  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  for 
saying  so  —  I've  heard  that  your  married  life 
has  been  —  hasn't  been  —  " 

"  My  married   life  has  been   hell,"  she  said ; 


96  THE    LITERARY    SENSE 

"  but  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  that.  I  deserved 
it  all." 

"  But,  my  dear  lady,  why  not  get  a  divorce  or, 
at  least,  a  separation  ?  My  services  —  anything 
I  can  do  to  advise  or  —  " 

She  sprang  from  her  chair  and  knelt  beside 
him. 

"  Oh,  how  could  you  think  that  of  me  ?  How 
could  you  ?  He's  dead  —  Benoliel's  dead.  I 
thought  you'd  understand  that  by  my  sending  to 
you.  Do  you  think  I'd  ever  have  seen  you  again 
as  long  as  he  was  alive  ?  I'm  not  a  wicked 
woman,  dear,  I'm  only  a  fool." 

She  had  caught  the  hand  that  lay  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  her  face  was  pressed  on  it,  and  on 
it  he  could  feel  her  tears  and  her  kisses. 

"  Don't,"  he  said  harshly,  "  don't."  But  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  draw  his  hand  away 
otherwise  than  very  gently,  and  after  a  decent 
pause.  He  stood  up  and  held  out  his  hand. 
She  put  hers  in  it,  he  raised  her  to  her  feet 
and  put  her  back  in  her  chair,  and  artfully 
entrenching  himself  behind  a  little  table,  sat 
down  in  a  very  stiff  chair  with  a  high  seat  and 
gilt  legs. 


THE   SECOND   BEST  97 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  don't  trouble !  You 
needn't  barricade  yourself  like  a  besieged  castle. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  You're  really  quite  safe. 
I'm  not  so  mad  as  you  think.  Only,  you  know, 
all  this  time  I've  never  been  able  to  get  the  idea 
out  of  my  head  —  " 

He  was  afraid  to  ask  what  idea. 

"  I  always  believed  you  meant  it ;  that  you 
always  would  love  me,  just  as  you  said.  I  was 
wrong,  that's  all.     Now  go  !     Do  go  !  " 

He  was  afraid  to  go. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  let's  talk  quietly,  and  like 
the  old  friends  we  were  before  we  —  " 

"  Before  we  weren't.     Well  ?  " 

He  was  now  afraid  to  say  anything. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  let  me  talk. 
There  are  some  things  I  do  really  want  to  say, 
since  you  won't  let  it  go  without  saying.  One  is 
that  I  know  now  you're  not  so  much  to  blame 
as  I  thought,  and  I  do  forgive  you.  I  mean  it, 
really,  not  just  pretending  forgiveness ;  I  forgive 
you  altogether  —  " 

"  You  —  forgive  me  f  " 

"  Yes,  didn't  you  understand  that  that  was 
what  I  meant  ?     I  didn't  want  to  say  '  I  forgive 


98  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

you,'  and  I  thought  if  I  sent  for  you  you'd 
understand." 

"  You  seem  to  have  thought  your  sending  for 
me  a  more  enlightening  move  than  I  found  it." 

«  Yes  —  because  yon  don't  care  now.  If  you 
had,  you'd  have  understood." 

"  I  really  think  I  should  like  to  understand." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Exactly  what  it  is  you're  kind  enough  to 
forgive." 

a  Why  —  your  never  coming  to  see  me.  Beno- 
liel  told  me  before  we'd  been  married  a  month 
that  he  had  got  my  aunt  to  stop  your  letters  and 
mine,  so  I  don't  blame  you  now  as  I  did  then. 
But  you  might  have  come  when  you  found  I 
didn't  write." 

"  I  did  come.  The  house  was  shut  up,  and 
the  caretaker  could  give  no  address." 

"  Did  you  really  ?  And  there  was  no  address  ? 
I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  did,"  he  said  savagely ; 
"  you  never  did  think  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  a  fool !     I  was  ! " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  I  have  been  punished." 


THE   SECOND   BEST  99 

"  Not  you !  "  he  said.  "  You  got  what  you 
wanted  —  money,  money,  money  —  the  only 
thing  I  couldn't  give  you.  If  it  comes  to  that, 
why  didn't  you  come  and  see  me  f  I  hadn't  gone 
away  and  left  no  address.^' 

"  I  never  thought  of  it." 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"And,  besides,  you  wouldn't  have  been 
there  —  " 

"  I  ?     I  sat  day  after  day  waiting  for  a  letter." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,"  she  said  again. 

And  again  he  said  :  "  No,  of  course  you  didn't ; 
you  wouldn't,  you  know  —  " 

"  Ah,  don't !  please  don't !  Oh,  you  don't 
know  how  sorry  I've  been  —  " 

"  But  why  did  you  marry  him  ?  " 

"  To  spite  you  —  to  show  you  I  didn't  care  — 
because  I  was  in  a  rage  —  because  I  was  a  fool  ! 
You  might  as  well  tell  me  at  once  that  you're  in 
love  with  someone  else." 

"  Must  one  always  be  in  love,  then  ? "  he 
sneered. 

"  I  thought  men  always  were,"  she  said  simply. 
"  Please  tell  me." 

"  No,  I'm  not  in  love  with  anybody.     I  have 


100  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

had  enough  of  that  to  last  me  for  a  year  or 
two." 

"  Then  —  oh,  won't  you  try  to  like  me  again  ? 
Nobody  will  ever  love  you  so  much  as  I  do  —  you 
said  I  looked  just  the  same  —  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  arenH  the  same." 

"  Yes  I  am.  I  think  really  I'm  better  than  I 
used  to  be,"  she  said  timidly. 

"  You're  not  the  same,"  he  went  on,  growing 
angrier  to  feel  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to 
grow  angry  with  her.  ''  You  were  a  girl,  and 
my  sweetheart ;  now  you're  a  widow  —  that 
man's  widow !  You're  not  the  same.  The  past 
can't  be  undone  so  easily,  I  assure  you." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  clenching  her  hands,  "  I  know 
there  must  be  something  I  could  say  that  you 
would  listen  to  —  oh,  I  wish  I  could  think  what ! 
I  suppose  as  it  is  I'm  saying  things  no  other 
woman  ever  would  have  said  —  but  I  don't  care  ! 
I  won't  be  reserved  and  dignified,  and  leave 
everything  to  you,  like  girls  in  books.  I  lost 
too  much  by  that  before.  I  will  sa}^  every  single 
thing  I  can  think  of.  I  will !  Dearest,  you  said 
you  would  always  love  me  —  you  don't  care  for 
anyone  else.     I  hnow  you  would  love  me  again  if 


THE   SECOND   BEST  '^  '  'iol ' ' 

you  would  only  let  yourself.  Won't  you  forgive 
me?" 

"  I  can't,"  he  said  briefly. 

"  Have  you  never  done  anything  that  needed 
to  be  forgiven  ?  I  w^ould  forgive  you  anything 
in  the  world !  Didn't  you  care  for  other  people 
before  you  knew  me  ?  And  I'm  not  angry  about 
it.     And  I  never  cared  for  him." 

"  That  only  makes  it  worse,"  he  said. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  It  makes  it  worse 
for  me  !  But  if  you  loved  me  it  ought  to  make 
it  better  for  you.  If  you  had  loved  me  with 
your  heart  and  mind  you  would  be  glad  to  think 
how  little  it  was,  after  all,  that  I  did  give  to  that 
man." 

"  Sold  —  not  gave  —  " 

"  Oh,  don't  spare  me  !  But  there's  no  need  to 
tell  you  not  to  spare  me.  But  I  don't  care  what 
you  say.  You've  loved  other  women.  I've 
never  loved  anyone  but  you.  And  yet  you  can't 
forgive  me  !  " 

"  It's  not  the  same,"  he  repeated  dully. 

"  I  am  the  same  —  only  I'm  more  patient,  I 
hope,  and  not  so  selfish.  But  your  pride  is  hurt, 
and  you  think  it's  not  quite  the  right  thing  to 


102  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

marry  a  rich  man's  widow.  And  you  want  to 
go  home  and  feel  how  strong  and  heroic  you've 
been,  and  be  proud  of  yourself  because  you 
haven't  let  me  make  a  fool  of  you." 

It  was  so  nearly  true  that  he  denied  it  in- 
stantly. 

"  I  don't,"  he  said.  "  I  could  have  forgiven 
you  anything,  however  wicked  you'd  been  — 
but    I    can't   forgive    you    for  having   been  — " 

"  Been  a  fool  ?  I  can't  forgive  myself  for 
that,  either.  My  dear,  my  dear,  you  don't  love 
anyone  else  ;  you  don't  hate  me.  Do  you  know 
that  your  eyes  are  quite  changed  from  what 
they  were  when  you  came  in  ?  And  your 
voice,  and  your  face  —  everything.  Think,  dear, 
if  I  am  not  the  same  woman  you  loved,  I'm 
still  more  like  her  than  anyone  else  in  the  world. 
And  you  did  love  me  —  oh,  don't  hate  me  for 
anything  I've  said.  Don't  you  see  I'm  fighting 
for  my  life  ?  Look  at  me.  I  am  just  like  your 
old  sweetheart,  only  I  love  you  more,  and  I  can 
understand  better  now  how  not  to  make  you 
unhappy.  Ah,  don't  throw  everything  away 
without  thinking.  I  am  more  like  the  woman 
you  loved   than  anyone  else  can  ever  be.     Oh, 


THE   SECOND   BEST  103 

my  God  !  my  God  !  what  shall  I  say  to  him  ? 
Oh,  God  help  me  !  " 

She  had  said  enough.  The  one  phrase  "  If  I 
am  not  the  same  woman  you  loved,  still  I  am 
more  like  her  than  anyone  else  in  the  world  " 
had  struck  straight  at  his  heart.  It  was  true. 
What  if  this,  the  second  best,  were  now  the 
best  life  had  to  offer  ?  If  he  threw  this  away, 
would  any  other  woman  be  able  to  inspire  him 
with  any  sentiment  more  like  love  than  this 
passion  of  memory,  regret,  tenderness,  pity  — 
this  desire  to  hold,  protect,  and  comfort,  with 
which,  ever  since  her  tears  fell  on  his  hand,  he 
had  been  fighting  in  fierce  resentment.  He 
looked  at  the  huddled  grey  figure.  He  must 
decide  —  now,  at  this  moment  —  he  must  decide 
for  two  lives. 

But  before  he  had  time  to  decide  anything 
he  found  that  he  had  taken  her  in  his  arms. 

"  My  own,  my  dear,"  he  was  saying  again  and 
again,  "  I  didn't  mean  it.  It  wasn't  true.  I 
love  you  better  than  anything.  Let's  forget  it 
all.  I  don't  care  for  anything  now  I  have  you 
again." 

"  Then  why  —  " 


104  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"Oh,  don't  let's  ask  each  other  questions  — 
let's  begin  all  over  again  at  two  years  ago. 
We'll  forget  all  the  rest  —  my  dear  —  my 
own ! " 

Of  course  neither  has  ever  forgotten  it,  but 
they  always  pretend  to  each  other  that  they 
have. 

Her  defiance  of  the  literary  sense  in  him  and 
in  her  was  justified.  His  literary  sense,  or  some 
deeper  instinct,  prompted  him  to  refuse  to  use 
Benoliel's  money  —  but  her  acquiescence  in  his 
decision  reversed  it.  And  they  live  very  com- 
fortably  on   the  money  to   this   day. 

The  odd  thing  is  that  they  are  extremely 
happy.  Perhaps  it  is  not,  after  all,  such  a  bad 
thing  to  be  quite  sure,  before  marriage,  that  the 
second-best  happiness  is  all  you  are  likely  to 
get  in  this  world. 


A   HOLIDAY 

THE  month  was  June,  the  street  was  Gower 
Street,  the  room  was  an  attic.  And  in  it 
a  poet  sat,  straggling  with  the  rebellious  third  act 
of  the  poetic  drama  that  was  to  set  him  in  the 
immediate  shadow  of  Shakespeare,  and  on  the 
level  of  those  who  ring  Parnassus  round  just 
below  the  summit.  The  attic  roof  sloped,  the 
furniture  was  vilely  painted  in  grained  yellow, 
the  arm-chair's  prickly  horsehair  had  broken  to 
let  loose  lumps  of  dark-coloured  flock.  The 
curtains  were  dark  and  damask  and  dusty.  The 
carpet  was  Kidderminster  and  sand-coloured. 
It  had  holes  in  it ;  so  had  the  Dutch  hearthrug. 
The  poet's  penholder  was  the  kind  at  twopence 
the  dozen.  The  ink  was  in  a  penny  bottle. 
Outside  on  a  blackened  fiowerless  lilac  a  strayed 
thrush  sang  madly  of  spring  and  hope  and  joy 
and  love. 

105 


106  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

The  clear  strong  June  sunshine  streamed  in 
through  the  window  and  turned  the  white  of 
the  poet's  page  to  a  dazzling  silver  splen- 
dour. 

"  Hang  it  all !  "  he  cried,  and  he  threw  down 
the  yellow-brown  penholder.  "  It's  too  much  ! 
It's  not  to  be  borne  !     It's  not  human  !  " 

He  turned  out  his  pockets.  Two-and-seven- 
pence.  He  could  draw  the  price  of  an  ode  and 
a  roundelay  from  the  Sjpectator  —  but  not  to-day, 
for  this  was  a  Bank  Holiday,  Whit  Monday,  in 
fact.  Then  he  thought  of  his  tobacco  jar.  Sure 
enough,  there  lurked  some  halfpence  among  the 
mossy  shag,  and  —  oh,  wonder  and  joy  and 
cursed  carelessness  for  ever  to  be  blessed  —  a 
gleaming  coy  half-sovereign.  In  the  ticket-pocket 
of  his  overcoat  a  splendid  unforeseen  shilling  — 
a  florin  and  a  sixpence  in  the  velveteen  jacket 
he  had  not  worn  since  last  year.  Ten  —  and 
two  —  and  one  —  and  two  and  sevenpence  and 
sixpence  —  sixteen  shillings  and  a  penny. 
Enough,  more  than  enough,  to  take  him  out  of 
this  world  of  burst  horsehair  chairs  and  greedy 
foolscap,  of  arid  authorship  and  burst  bubbles 
of  dreams  to  the  real  world,  where  spring,  still 


A  HOLIDAY  107 

laughing,  shrank  from  the  kisses  of  summer, 
where  white  may  blossomed  and  thrushes  sang. 

"  I'll  have  a  holiday,"  he  said,  "  who  knows  — 
I  may  get  an  idea  for  a  poem  ! " 

He  cleaned  his  boots  with  ink  ;  they  were  not 
shiny  after  it,  but  they  were  at  least  black.  He 
put  on  his  last  clean  shirt  and  the  greeny-blue 
Liberty  tie  that  his  sister  had  sent  him  for  his 
April  birthday.  He  brushed  his  soft  hat  — 
counted  his  money  again  —  found  for  it  a  pocket 
still  lacking  holes  —  and  went  out  whistling. 
The  front  door  slammed  behind  him  with  a 
cheerful  conclusive  bang. 

From  the  top  of  an  omnibus  he  noted  the 
town  gilded  with  June  sunlight.  And  it  was 
very  good. 

He  bought  food,  and  had  it  packed  in  decent 
brown  paper,  so  that  it  looked  like  something 
superfluous  from  the  stores. 

And  he  caught  the  ten  something  train  to 
Halstead.     He  only  just  caught  it. 

He  blundered  into  a  third-class  carriage,  and 
nearly  broke  his  neck  over  an  umbrella  which 
lay  across  the  door  like  an  amateur  trap  for 
undesired  company. 


108  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

By  some  extraordinary  apotheosis  of  Bank 
Holiday  mismanagement,  there  was  only  one 
person  in  the  carriage  —  the  owner  of  the  trap- 
umbrella.  A  girl,  of  course.  That  was  inevi- 
table in  this  magic  weather.  He  had  knocked 
her  basket  ofP  the  seat,  and  had  only  just  saved 
himself  from  buffeting  her  with  his  uncontrolled 
shoulder  before  he  saw  that  she  was  a  girl.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  apologised.  She  smiled, 
murmured,  and  blushed. 

He  settled  himself  in  his  corner,  and  unfolded 
the  evening  paper  of  yesterday  which,  by  the 
most  fortunate  chance,  happened  to  be  in  his 
pocket. 

Over  it  he  glanced  at  her.  She  was  pretty  — 
with  a  vague  unawakened  prettiness.  Her  eyes 
and  hair  were  dark.  Her  hat  seemed  dowdy,  yet 
becoming.  Her  gloves  were  rubbed  at  the 
fingers.  Her  blouse  was  light  and  bright.  Her 
skirt  obscure  and  severe.  He  decided  that  she 
was  not  well  off. 

His  eyes  followed  a  dull  leader  on  the  ques- 
tion of  the  government  of  India.  But  he  did 
not  want  to  read.  He  wanted  to  talk.  On  this 
June    day,  when    the    life   of    full-grown  spring 


A   HOLIDAY  109 

thrilled  one  to  the  finger  tips,  how  could  one 
feed  one's  vitality,  one's  over-mastering  joy  of 
life,  with  printer's  ink  and  the  greyest  paper  in 
London  ? 

He  glanced  at  her  again.  She  was  looking  out 
of  the  window  at  the  sordid  little  Bermondsey 
houses,  where  the  red  buds  of  the  Virginia 
creeper  were  already  waking  to  their  green 
summer  life-work.  He  spoke.  And  no  one 
would  have  guessed  from  his  speech  that  he  was 
a  poet. 

"  What  a  beautiful  day  !  "  he  said. 

"Yes,  very,"  said  she,  and  her  tone  gave  no 
indication  of  any  exuberant  spring  expansive- 
ness  to  match  his  own. 

He  looked  at  her  again.  No.  Yes.  Yes,  he 
would  try  the  experiment  he  had  long  wanted 
to  try  —  had  often  in  long,  silent,  tete-a-tete 
journeys  dreamed  of  trying.  He  would  skip  all 
the  pitiful  formalities  of  chance  acquaintanceship. 
He  would  speak  as  one  human  being  to  another 
—  would  assume  the  sure  bond  of  a  common 
kinship.     He  said  — 

"  It  is  such  a  beautiful  day  that  I  want  to 
talk  about  it !     Mayn't  I  talk  to  you  ?     Don't 


110  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

you  feel  that  you  want  to  say  how  beautiful  it 
is  —  just  as  much  as  I  do  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  him.  A  scared  fold  in  her 
brow  warned  him  of  the  idea  that  had  seized 
her. 

"  I'm  really  not  mad,"  he  said ;  "  but  it  does 
seem  so  frightfully  silly  that  we  should  travel 
all  the  way  to  —  to  wherever  you  are  going,  and 
not  tell  each  other  how  good  June  weather  is." 

"  Well  —  it  is  !  "  she  owned. 

He  eagerly  spoke :  he  wanted  to  entangle  her 
in  talk  before  her  conventional  shrinking  from 
chance  acquaintanceship  should  shrivel  her  inter- 
est past  hope. 

"  I  often  think  how  silly  people  are,"  he  said, 
"not  to  talk  in  railway  carriages.  One  can't 
read  without  blinding  oneself.  I've  seen  women 
knit,  but  that's  unspeakable.  Many  a  time  in 
frosty,  foggy  weather,  when  the  South  Eastern 
has  taken  two  hours  to  get  from  Cannon  Street 
to  Blackheath,  I've  looked  round  the  carriage 
and  wanted  to  say,  '  Gentlemen,  seeing  that  we 
are  thus  delayed,  let  us  each  contribute  to  the 
general  hilarity  by  telling  a  story  —  we  might 
gather  them  into  a  Christmas  number  afterwards 


A  HOLIDAY  111 

—  in  the  manner  of  the  late  Mr.  Charles  Dick- 
ens,' then  I've  looked  round  the  carriage  full  of 
city-centred  people,  and  wondered  how  they'd 
deal  with  the  lunatic  who  ventured  to  suggest 
such  an  All-the-year-round  idea.  But  nobody 
could  be  city-centred  on  such  a  day,  and  so 
early.     So  let's  talk." 

She  had  laughed,  as  he  had  meant  her  to 
laugh.  Now  she  seemed  to  throw  away  some 
scruple  in  the  gesture  with  which  she  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  turned  to  him. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  and  she  was  smiling. 
"  Only  I've  nothing  to  say." 

"  Never  mind ;  I  have,"  he  rejoined,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  say  it.  It  seemed  amusing  to  him  as 
an  experiment  to  talk  to  this  girl,  this  perfect 
stranger,  with  a  delicate  candour  that  he  would 
not  have  shown  to  his  oldest  friend.  It  seemed 
interesting  to  lay  bare,  save  for  a  veiling  of 
woven  transparent  impersonality,  his  inmost 
mind.  It  was  interesting,  for  the  revelation  drew 
her  till  they  were  talking  together  in  a  world 
where  it  seemed  no  more  than  natural  for  her  to 
show  him  her  soul :  and  she  had  no  skill  to 
weave  veils  for  it. 


112  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

Such  talk  is  rare :  so  rare  and  so  keen  a 
pleasure,  indeed,  as  to  leave  upon  one's  life,  if 
one  be  not  a  poet,  a  mark  strong  and  never  to 
be  effaced. 

The  slackening  of  the  train  at  Halstead  broke 
the  spell  which  lay  on  both  v^ith  a  force  equal 
in  strength,  if  diverse  in  kind. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  "  I  get  out  here.  Good-bye, 
good-bye." 

He  would  not  spoil  the  parting  by  banalities 
of  hat-raising  amid  the  group  of  friends  or  rela- 
tions who  would  doubtless  meet  her. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  made  her 
take  his  offered  hand.  "  Good-bye.  I  shall 
never  forget  you.     Never !  " 

And  then  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  farewell 
lacked  fire :  and  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  face. 
He  did  not  kiss  it.  He  laid  it  against  his  cheek, 
sighed,  and  dropped  it.  The  action  was  delicate 
and  very  effective.  It  suggested  the  impulse, 
almost  irresistible  yet  resisted,  the  well-nigh 
overwhelming  longing  to  kiss  the  hand,  kept  in 
check  by  a  respect  that  was  almost  devotion. 

She  should  have  torn  her  hand  away.  She 
took  it  away  gently,  and  went. 


A   HOLIDAY  113 

Leisurely  he  got  out  of  the  train.  She  had 
disappeared.  Well  —  the  bright  little  interlude 
was  over.  Still,  it  would  give  food  for  dreams 
among  the  ferny  woods.  The  first  lines  of  a 
little  song  hummed  themselves  in  his  brain  — 

"  Eyes  like  stars  in  the  night  of  life, 
Seen  but  a  moment  and  seen  for  ever." 

He  would  finish  them  and  send  them  to  the  Pall 
Mall  Gazette.     That  would  be  a  guinea. 

He  wished  the  journey  had  been  longer.  He 
would  never  see  her  again.  Perhaps  it  was  just 
as  well.  He  crushed  that  last  thought.  It 
would  be  good  to  dwell  through  the  day  on  the 
thought  of  her  —  the  almost  loved,  the  wholly 

lost. 

"  That  could  but  have  happened  once 
And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  for  ever ! " 

Her  eyes  were  very  pretty,  especially  when 
they  opened  themselves  so  widely  as  she  tried 
to  express  the  thoughts  that  no  one  but  he  had 
ever  cared  to  hear  expressed.  The  definite  biog- 
raphy —  dead  father,  ailing  mother  —  hard  work 
—  hard  life  —  hard-won  post  as  High  School 
Mistress,  were    but    as    the   hoarding  on  which 


114  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

was  pasted  the  artistic  poster  of  their  meeting 

—  their  parting.  He  sighed  as  he  walked  along 
the  platform.  The  promise  of  June  had  fulfilled 
itself :  he  was  rich  in  a  sorrow  that  did  not  hurt 

—  a  regret  that  did  not  sting.  Poor  little  girl ! 
Poor  pretty  eyes !  Poor  timid,  brave  maiden- 
soul  ! 

Suddenly  in  his  walk  he  stopped  short. 

Obliquely  through  the  door  of  the  booking- 
office  he  saw  her.  She  was  alone.  No  troops 
of  friends  or  relations  had  borne  her  off.  She 
was  waiting  for  someone  ;  and  someone  had 
not  come. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  He  felt  an  odd  chill, 
n  he  had  only  not  taken  her  hand  in  that  silly 
way  which  had  seemed  at  the  time  so  artistically 
perfect.  The  railway  carriage  talk  might  have 
been  prolonged  prettily,  indefinitely.  But  that 
foolish  contact  had  rung  up  the  curtain  on  a 
transformation  scene,  whose  footlights  needed, 
at  least,  a  good  make-up  for  the  facing  of  them. 

She  stood  there  —  looking  down  the  road ;  in 
every  line  of  her  figure  was  dejection ;  hopeless- 
ness itself  had  drawn  the  line  of  her  head's 
sideward  droop.  His  make-up  need  be  but  of 
the  simplest. 


A   HOLIDAY  115 

She  had  expected  to  meet  someone,  and  some- 
one had  not  come. 

His  chivah'ic  impulses,  leaping  to  meet  the 
occasion's  call,  bade  him  substitute  a  splendid 
replacement  —  himself,  for  the  laggard  tryst- 
breaker.  Even  though  he  knew  that  that  touch 
of  the  hand  must  inaugurate  the  second  volume 
of  the  day's  romance. 

He  came  behind  her  and  spoke. 

"  Hasn't  he  come  ?  "  He  did  not  like  himself 
for  saying  "  he  "  —  but  he  said  it.  It  belonged 
to  the  second  volume. 

She  turned  with  a  start  and  a  lighting  of 
eyes  and  lips  that  almost  taught  him  pity. 
Not  quite :  for  the  poet's  nature  is  hard  to 
teach. 

"  He  ? "  she  said,  decently  covering  the  light 
of  lips  and  eyes  as  soon  as  might  be.  "  It  was 
a  friend.  She  was  to  come  from  Sevenoaks. 
She  ought  to  be  here.  We  were  to  have  a 
little  picnic  together."  She  glanced  at  her 
basket.  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  getting 
out  here.  Why  — "  The  question  died  on 
trembling  lips. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  repeated.     There  was  a  pause. 


116  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  And  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  he 
asked,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  tender  raillery 
for  her  lost  tryst  with  the  girl  friend,  and  for 
her  pretty  helplessness. 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  do  ! "  he  looked  in  her  eyes.  "  You 
are  going  to  be  kind.  Life  is  so  cruel.  You 
are  going  to  help  me  to  cheat  Life  and  Destiny. 
You  are  going  to  leave  your  friend  to  the  waste 
desolation  of  this  place,  if  she  comes  by  the 
next  train  :  but  she  won't  —  she's  kept  at  home 
by  toothache,  or  a  broken  heart,  or  some  little 
foolish  ailment  like  that,"  —  he  prided  himself 
on  the  light  touch  here,  —  ''  and  you  are  going  to 
be  adorably  kind  and  sweet  and  generous,  and 
to  let  me  drink  the  pure  wine  of  life  for  this 
one  day." 

Her  eyes  drooped.  Fully  inspired,  he  struck 
a  master-chord  in  the  lighter  key. 

"  You  have  a  basket.  I  have  a  brown  paper 
parcel.  Let  me  carry  both,  and  we  will  share 
both.  We'll  go  to  Chevening  Park.  It  will  be 
fun.     Will  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause  :  he  wondered  whether  by 
any  least  likely  chance  the  chord  had  not  rung 
true.     Then  — 


A  HOLIDAY  117 

"  Yes,"  she  said  half  defiantly.  "  I  don't  see 
why  I  shouldn't  —     Yes." 

"  Then  give  me  the  basket,"  he  said,  "  and  hey 
for  the  green  wood  !  " 

The  way  led  through  green  lanes  —  through 
a  green  park,  where  tall  red  sorrel  and  w^hite 
daisies  grew  high  among  the  grass  that  was  up 
for  hay.  The  hawthorns  were  silvery,  the  butter- 
cups golden.  The  gold  sun  shone,  the  blue  sky 
arched  over  a  world  of  green  and  glory.  And 
so  through  Knockholt,  and  up  the  narrow^  road 
to  the  meadow  whose  path  leads  to  the  steep 
wood-way  where  Chevening  Park  begins. 

They  walked  side  by  side,  and  to  both  of  them 
—  for  he  w^as  now  wholly  lost  in  the  delightful 
part  for  which  this  good  summer  w^orld  was  the 
fitting  stage  —  to  both  of  them  it  seemed  that 
the  green  country  was  enchanted  land,  and  they 
under  a  spell  that  could  never  break. 

They  talked  of  all  things  under  the  sun :  he, 
eager  to  impress  her  with  that  splendid  self  of 
his ;  she,  anxious  to  show  herself  not  wholly 
unworthy.  She,  too,  had  read  her  Keats  and 
her  Shelley  and  her  Browning  —  and  could  cap 
and  even  overshadow  his  random  quotations. 


118  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  There  is  no  one  like  you,"  he  said  as  they 
passed  the  stile  above  the  wood ;  "  no  one  in  this 
beautiful  world." 

Her  heart  replied  — 

"  If  there  is  anyone  like  you  I  have  never 
met  him,  and  oh,  thank  God,  thank  God,  that  I 
have  met  you  now." 

Aloud  she  said  — 

"  There's  a  place  under  beech  trees  —  a  sort  of 
chalk  plateau  —  I  used  to  have  picnics  there  with 
my  brothers  when  I  was  a  little  girl  —  " 

"  Shall  we  go  there  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Will  you 
really  take  me  to  the  place  that  your  pretty 
memories  haunt  ?  Ah  —  how  good  you  are  to 
me." 

As  they  went  down  the  steep  wood-path  she 
slipped,  stumbled  —  he  caught  her. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  !  "  he  said.  "  This  path's 
not  safe  for  you." 

It  was  not.  She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  they 
went  down  into  the  wood  together. 

The  picnic  was  gay  as  an  August  garden. 
After  a  life  of  repression  —  to  meet  someone  to 
whom  one  might  be  oneself !     It  was  very  good. 

She  said  so.  That  was  when  he  did  kiss  her 
hand. 


A  HOLIDAY  119 

When  lunch  was  over  they  sat  on  the  sloped, 
short  turf  and  watched  the  rabbits  in  the  warren 
below.  They  sat  there  and  they  talked.  And 
to  the  end  of  her  days  no  one  will  know  her  soul 
as  he  knew  it  that  day,  and  no^  one  ever  knew 
better  than  she  that  aspect  of  his  soul  which  he 
chose  that  day  to  represent  as  its  permanent  form. 

The  hours  went  by,  and  wlien  the  shadows 
began  to  lengthen  and  the  sun  to  hide  behind 
the  wood  they  were  sitting  hand  in  hand.  All 
the  entrenchments  of  her  life's  training,  her  bar- 
riers of  maidenly  reserve,  had  been  swept  away 
by  the  torrent  of  his  caprice,  his  indolently 
formed  determination  to  drink  the  delicate  sweet 
cup  of  this  day  to  the  full. 

It  w^as  in  silence  that  they  went  back  along 
the  wood-path  —  her  hand  in  his,  as  before.  Yet 
not  as  before,  for  now  he  held  it  pressed  against 
his  heart. 

"  Oh,  what  a  day  —  what  a  day  of  days  !  "  he 
murmured.  "  Was  there  ever  such  a  day  ? 
Could  there  ever  have  been  ?  Tell  me  —  tell 
me  !     Could  there  ?  " 

And  she  answered,  turning  aside  a  changed, 
softened,  transfigured  face. 


120  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  You  know  —  you  know  ! " 

So  they  reached  the  stile  at  the  top  of  the 
wood  —  and  here,  when  he  had  lent  her  his  hand 
to  climb  it,  he  paused,  still  holding  in  his  her 
hand. 

Now  or  never,  should  the  third  volume  begin 
—  and  end.  Should  he  ?  Should  he  not  ? 
Which  would  yield  the  more  perfect  memory  — 
the  one  kiss  to  crown  the  day,  or  the  kiss  re- 
nounced, the  crown  refused  ?  Her  eyes,  beseech- 
ing, deprecating,  fearing,  alluring,  decided  the 
question.  He  framed  her  soft  face  in  his  hands 
and  kissed  her,  full  on  the  lips.  Then  not  so 
much  for  insurance  against  future  entanglement 
as  for  the  sound  of  the  phrase,  which  pleased 
him  —  he  was  easily  pleased  at  the  moment  — 
he  said  — 

"  A  kiss  for  love  —  for  memory  —  for  de- 
spair ! " 

It  was  almost  in  silence  that  they  went 
through  lanes  still  and  dark,  across  the  wide- 
spread park  lawns  and  down  the  narrow  road  to 
the  station.  Her  hand  still  lay  against  his  heart. 
The  kiss  still  thrilled  through  them  both.  They 
parted  at  the  statioUc     He  would   not  risk  the 


A   HOLIDAY  121 

lessening  of  the  day's  charming  impression  by  a 
railway  journey.  He  could  go  to  town  by  a 
later  train.  He  put  her  into  a  crowded  carriage, 
and  murmured  with  the  last  hand  pressure  — 

"  Thank  God  for  this  one  day.  I  shall  never 
forget.  You  will  never  forget.  This  day  is  all 
our  lives  —  all  that  might  have  been." 

"  I  shall  never  forget,"  she  said. 

^  ^  At.  ^  ^  4^ 

^r  "7?  "vv*  "Tr  tP  ^F 

In  point  of  fact,  she  never  has  forgotten.  She 
has  remembered  all,  even  to  the  least  light  touch 
of  his  hand,  the  slightest  change  in  his  soft  kind 
voice.  That  is  why  she  has  refused  to  marry 
the  excellent  solicitor  who  might  have  made  her 
happy,  and,  faded  and  harassed,  still  teaches  to 
High  School  girls  the  Euclid  and  Algebra  which 
they  so  deeply  hate  to  learn. 

As  for  him,  he  went  home  in  a  beautiful 
dream,  and  in  the  morning  he  wrote  a  song 
about  her  eyes  which  was  so  good  that  he  sent 
it  to  the  AthencBum,  and  got  two  guineas  for  it  — 
so  that  his  holiday  was  really  not  altogether 
wasted. 


THE    FORCE   OF   HABIT 

FROM  her  very  earliest  teens  every  man  she 
met  had  fallen  at  her  feet.  Her  father  in 
paternal  transports  —  dignified  and  symbolic  as 
the  adoration  of  the  Magi,  uncles  in  forced  un- 
willing tribute,  cousins  according  to  their  kind, 
even  brothers,  resentful  of  their  chains  yet  still 
enslaved,  lovers  by  the  score,  persons  disposed  to 
marriage  by  the  half-dozen. 

And  she  had  smiled  on  them  all,  because  it  was 
so  nice  to  be  loved,  and  if  one  could  make  those 
who  loved  happy  by  smiling,  why,  smiles  were 
cheap  !  Not  cheap  like  inferior  soap,  but  like  the 
roses  from  a  full  June  garden. 

To  one  she  gave  something  more  than  smiles  — 
herself  to  wit  —  and  behold  her  at  twenty, 
married  to  the  one  among  her  slaves  to  whom 
she  had  deigned  to  throw  the  handkerchief  — 
real  Brussels,  be  sure  !  Behold  her  happy  in  the 
adoration  of    the  one,  the  only  one  among  her 

123 


124  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

adorers  whom  she  herself  could  adore.  His 
name  was  John,  of  course,  and  it  was  a  foregone 
conclusion  that  he  should  be  a  stock-broker. 

All  the  same,  he  was  nice,  which  is  something : 
and  she  loved  him,  which  is  everything. 

The  little  new  red-brick  Queen  Anne  villa  was 
as  the  Garden  of  Eden  to  the  man  and  the 
woman  —  but  the  jerry  builder  is  a  reptile  more 
cursed  than  the  graceful  serpent  who,  in  his 
handsome  suit  of  green  and  gold,  pulled  out  the 
lynch-pin  from  the  wedding  chariot  of  our  first 
parents.  The  new  house  — "  Cloudesley  "  its 
name  was  —  was  damp  as  any  cloud,  and  the 
Paradise  was  shattered,  not  by  any  romantic  ser- 
pen t-and-apple  business,  but  by  plain,  honest, 
e very-day  rheumatism.  It  was,  indeed,  as  near 
rheumatic  fever  as  one  may  go  without  tum- 
bling over  the  grisly  fence. 

The  doctor  said  "  Buxton."  John  could  not 
leave  town.  There  was  a  boom  or  a  slump  or 
something  that  required  his  personal  supervision. 

So  her  old  nurse  was  called  up  from  out  of  the 
mists  of  the  grey  past  before  he  and  she  were 
hers  and  his,  and  she  went  to  Buxton  in  a  spe- 
cially reserved  invalid  carriage.     She  went,  with 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  125 

half  her  dainty  trousseau  clothes  —  a  helpless 
invalid. 

Now  I  don't  want  to  advertise  Buxton  waters 
as  a  cure  for  rheumatism,  but  I  know  for  a  fact 
that  she  had  to  be  carried  down  to  her  first  bath. 
It  was  a  marble  bath,  and  she  felt  like  a  Roman 
empress  in  it.  And  before  she  had  had  ten  days 
of  marble  baths  she  was  almost  her  own  man 
again,  and  the  youth  in  her  danced  like  an  im- 
prisoned bottle-imp.  But  she  was  dull  because 
there  was  no  one  to  adore  her.  She  had  always 
been  fed  on  adoration,  and  she  missed  her  wonted 
food  —  without  the  shadow  of  a  guess  that  it 
was  this  she  was  missing.  It  was,  perhaps,  un- 
fortunate that  her  old  nurse  should  have  sprained 
a  stout  ankle  in  the  very  first  of  those  walks  on 
the  moors  which  the  Doctor  recommended  for 
the  completion  of  the  cure  so  magnificently  inau- 
gurated by  the  Marble  Roman  Empress  baths. 

She  wrote  to  her  John  every  day.  Long 
letters.  But  when  the  letter  was  done,  what  else 
was  there  left  to  do  with  what  was  left  of  the 
day  ?     She  was  very,  very  bored. 

One  must  obey  one's  doctor.  Else  why  pay 
him  guineas  ? 


126  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

So  she  walked  out,  after  pretty  apologies  to 
the  nurse,  left  lonely,  across  the  wonder-wide 
moors.  She  learned  the  springy  gait  of  the  true 
hill  climber,  and  drank  in  health  and  strength 
from  the  keen  hill  air.  The  month  was  March. 
She  seemed  to  be  the  only  person  of  her  own 
dainty  feather  in  Buxton.  So  she  walked  the 
moors  alone.  All  her  life  joy  had  come  to  her 
in  green  elm  and  meadow  land,  and  this  strange 
grey-stone  walled  rocky  country  made  her  breath- 
less with  its  austere  challenge.  Yet  life  was 
good ;  strength  grew.  No  longer  she  seemed  to 
have  a  body  to  care  for.  Soul  and  spirit  were 
carried  by  something  so  strong  as  to  delight  in 
the  burden.  A  month,  her  town  doctor  had  said. 
A  fortnight  taught  her  to  wonder  why  he  had 
said  it.  Yet  she  felt  lonely  —  too  small  for  those 
great  hills. 

The  old  nurse,  patient,  loving,  urged  her  lamb 
to  "  go  out  in  the  fresh  air "  ;  and  the  lamb 
went. 

It  was  on  a  grey  day,  when  the  vast  hill 
slopes  seemed  more  than  ever  sinister  and 
reluctant  to  the  little  figure  that  braved  them. 
She  wore  an  old  skirt  and  an  old  jacket  —  her 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  127 

husband  had  slipped  them  in  when  he  strapped 
her  boxes. 

"They're  warm,"  he  had  said ;  "you  may  need 
them." 

She  had  a  rainbow-dyed  neckerchief  and  a 
little  fur  hat,  perky  with  a  peacock's  iridescent 
head  and  crest. 

She  was  very  pretty.  The  paleness  of  her 
illness  lent  her  a  new  charm.  And  she  walked 
the  lonely  road  with  an  air.  She  had  never 
been  a  great  walker,  and  she  was  proud  of  each 
of  the  steps  that  this  clear  hill  air  gave  her  the 
courage  to  take. 

And  it  was  glorious,  after  all,  to  be  alone  — 
the  only  human  thing  on  these  wide  moors, 
where  the  curlews  mewed  as  if  the  place  be- 
longed to  them.  There  was  a  sound  behind  her. 
The  rattle  of  wheels. 

She  stopped.  She  turned  and  looked.  Far 
below  her  lay  the  valley  —  all  about  her  was  the 
immense  quiet  of  the  hills.  On  the  white  road, 
quite  a  long  way  off,  yet  audible  in  that  noble 
stillness,  hoofs  rang,  wheels  whirred.  She 
waited  for  the  thing  to  pass,  for  its  rings  of 
sound  to  die  out  in  that  wide  pool  of  silence. 


128  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

The  wheels  and  the  hoofs  drew  near.  The 
rattle  and  jolt  grew  louder.  She  saw  the  horse 
and  cart  grow  bigger  and  plainer.  In  a  moment 
it  would  have  passed.     She  waited. 

It  drew  near.  In  another  moment  it  would 
be  gone,  and  she  be  left  alone  to  meet  again  the 
serious  inscrutable  face  of  the  grey  landscape. 

But  the  cart  —  as  it  drew  near  —  drew  up, 
the  driver  tightened  rein,  and  the  rough  brown 
horse  stopped  —  his  hairy  legs  set  at  a  strong 
angle. 

"  Have  a  lift  ?  "  asked  the  driver. 

There  was  something  subtly  coercive  in  the 
absolute  carelessness  of  the  tone.  There  was 
the  hearer  on  foot  —  here  was  the  speaker  in  a 
cart.  She  being  on  foot  and  he  on  wheels,  it 
was  natural  that  he  should  offer  her  a  lift  in  his 
cart  —  it  was  a  greengrocer's  cart.  She  could 
see  celery,  cabbages,  a  barrel  or  two,  and  the 
honest  blue  eyes  of  the  man  who  drove  it  —  the 
man  who,  seeing  a  fellow  creature  at  a  disadvan- 
tage, instantly  offered  to  share  such  odds  as  Fate 
had  allotted  to  him  in  life's  dull  handicap. 

The  sudden  new  impossible  situation  appealed 
to    her.       If    lifts    were    offered  —  well  —  that 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  129 

must  mean  that  lifts  were  generally  accepted. 
In  Rome  one  does  as  Rome  does.  In  Derby- 
shire, evidently,  a  peacock  crested  toque  might 
ride,  unreproved  by  social  criticism,  in  a  green- 
grocer's cart.  A  tea-tray  on  wheels  it  seemed  to 
her. 

She  was  a  born  actress  ;  she  had  that  gift  of 
throwing  herself  at  a  moment's  notice  into  a 
given  part  which  in  our  silly  conventional  jargon 
we  nickname  tact. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  I  should  like  it  very 
much." 

The  box  on  which  he  arranged  a  seat  for  her 
contained  haddocks.  He  cushioned  it  with  a 
sack  and  his  own  shabby  greatcoat,  and  lent  her 
a  thick  rough  hand  for  the  mounting. 

"  Which  way  were  you  going  ?  "  he  asked,  and 
his  voice  was  not  the  soft  Peak  sing-song  —  but 
something  far  more  familiar. 

"  I  was  only  going  for  a  walk,"  she  said,  "  but 
it's  much  nicer  to  drive.  I  wasn't  going  any- 
where. Only  I  want  to  get  back  to  Buxton 
some  time." 

"  I  live  there,"  said  he.  "  I  must  be  home  by 
five.  I've  a  goodish  round  to  do.  Will  five  be 
soon  enough  for  you  ?  " 


130  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Quite,"  she  said,  and  considered  within  her- 
self what  role  it  would  be  kindest,  most  tactful, 
most  truly  gentlewomanly  to  play.  She  sought 
to  find,  in  a  word,  the  part  to  play  that  would 
best  please  the  man  who  was  with  her.  That 
was  what  she  had  always  tried  to  find.  With 
what  success  let  those  who  love  her  tell. 

"  I  mustn't  seem  too  clever,"  she  said  to  her- 
self ;  "  I  must  just  be  interested  in  what  lie  cares 
about.  That's  true  politeness :  mother  always 
said  so." 

So  she  talked  of  the  price  of  herrings  and  the 
price  of  onions,  and  of  trade,  and  of  the  difficulty 
of  finding  customers  who  had  at  once  apprecia- 
tion and  a  free  hand. 

When  he  drew  up  in  some  lean  grey  village, 
or  at  the  repellent  gates  of  some  isolated  slate- 
roofed  house,  he  gave  her  the  reins  to  hold, 
while  he,  with  his  samples  of  fruit  and  fish 
laid  out  on  basket  lids,  wooed  custom  at  the 
doors. 

She  experienced  a  strangely  crescent  interest 
in  his  sales. 

Between  the  sales  they  talked.  She  found  it 
quite  easy,  having  swept  back  and  penned  in  the 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  131 

major  part  of  her  knowledges  and  interests,  to 
leave  a  residuum  that  was  quite  enough  to  meet 
his  needs. 

As  the  chill  dusk  fell  in  cloudy  folds  over  the 
giant  hill  shoulders  and  the  cart  turned  towards 
home,  she  shivered. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?  "  he  asked  solicitously.  "  The 
wind  strikes  keen  down  between  these  beastly 
hills." 

"  Beastly  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Don't  you  think 
they're  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  of  course  I  see  they're  beau- 
tiful —  for  other  folks,  but  not  for  me.  What  I 
like  is  lanes  an'  elm  trees  and  farm  buildings 
with  red  tiles  and  red  walls  round  fruit  gardens 
—  and  cherry  orchards  and  thorough  good  rich 
medders  up  for  hay,  and  lilac  bushes  and  bits  o' 
flowers  in  the  gardens,  same  what  I  was  used  to 
at  home." 

She  thrilled  to  the  homely  picture. 

"  Why,  that's  what  I  like  too ! "  she  said. 
"  These  great  hills  —  I  don't  see  how  they  can 
feel  like  home  to  anyone.  There's  a  bit  of  an 
orchard  —  one  end  of  it  is  just  a  red  barn  wall  — 
and   there  are  hedges  round,   and    it's    all  soft 


132  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

warm  green  lights  and  shadows  —  and  thrushes 
sing  like  mad.     That's  home  ! " 

He  looked  at  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "that's  home." 

"  And  then,"  she  went  on,  "  the  lanes  with  the 
high  green  hedges,  dog-roses  and  brambles  and 
may  bushes  and  traveller's  joy  —  and  the  grey 
wooden  hurdles,  and  the  gates  with  yellow 
lichen  on  them,  and  the  white  roads  and  the 
light  in  the  farm  windows  as  you  come  home 
from  w^ork  —  and  the  fire  —  and  the  smell  of 
apples  from  the  loft." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that's  it  —  I'm  a  Kentish 
man  myself.  You've  got  a  lot  o'  words  to 
talk  with." 

When  he  put  her  down  at  the  edge  of  the 
town  she  went  to  rejoin  her  nurse  feeling  that 
to  one  human  being,  at  least,  she  had  that  day 
been  the  voice  of  the  home-ideal,  and  of  all 
things  sweet  and  fair.  And,  of  course,  this 
pleased  her  very  much. 

Next  morning  she  woke  with  the  vague  but 
sure  sense  of  something  pleasant  to  come.  She 
remembered  almost  instantly.  She  had  met  a 
man  on   whom  it  was  pleasant  to   smile,   and 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  133 

whom  her  smiles  and  her  talk  pleased.  And 
she  thought,  —  quite  honestly,  —  that  she  was 
being  very  philanthropic  and  lightening  a  dull 
life. 

She  wrote  a  long  loving  letter  to  John,  did  a 
little  shopping,  and  walked  out  along  a  road. 
It  was  the  road  by  which  he  had  told  her  that 
he  would  go  the  next  day.  He  overtook  her  and 
pulled  up  with  a  glad  face,  that  showed  her  the 
worth  of  her  smiles  and  almost  repaid  it. 

"  I  was  wondering  if  I'd  see  you,"  he  said ; 
"  was  you  tired  yesterday  ?  It's  a  fine  day 
to-day." 

"  Isn't  it  glorious  !  "  she  returned,  blinking  at 
the  pale  clear  sun. 

"  It  makes  everything  look  a  heap  prettier, 
doesn't  it  ?  Even  this  country  that  looks  like 
as  if  it  had  had  all  the  colour  washed  out  of 
it  in  strong  soda  and  suds." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  And  then  he  spoke  of  yes- 
terday's trade  —  he  had  done  well ;  and  of  the 
round  he  had  to  go  to-day.  But  he  did  not  offer 
her  a  lift. 

"  Won't  you  give  me  a  drive  to-day  ? "  she 
asked  suddenly.     "  I  enjoyed  it  so  much." 


134  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Will  you  ?  "  he  cried,  his  face  lighting  up  as 
he  moved  to  arrange  the  sacks.  "  I  didn't  like 
to  offer.  I  thought  you'd  think  I  was  takin'  too 
much  on  myself.  Come  up  —  reach  me  your 
hand.     Right  oh  !  " 

The  cart  clattered  away. 

"  I  was  thinking  ever  since  yesterday  when  I 
see  you  how  is  it  you  can  think  o'  so  many 
words  all  at  once.  It's  just  as  if  you  was 
seeing  it  all  —  the  way  you  talked  about  the 
red  barns  and  the  grey  gates  and  all  such." 

"  I  do  see  it,"  she  said,  "  inside  my  mind,  you 
know.  I  can  see  it  all  as  plainly  as  I  see  these 
great  cruel  hills." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "that's  just  what  they  are  — 
they're  cruel.  And  the  fields  and  woods  is  kind 
—  like  folks  you're  friends  with." 

She  was  charmed  with  the  phrase.  She  talked 
to  him,  coaxing  him  to  make  new  phrases.  It 
was  like  teaching  a  child  to  walk. 

He  told  her  about  his  home.  It  was  a  farm 
in  Kent  —  "red  brick  with  the  glory dyjohn  rose 
growin'  all  up  over  the  front  door  —  so  that  they 
never  opened  it." 

"  The  paint  had  stuck  it  fast,"  said  he,  "  it  was 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  135 

quite  a  job  to  get  it  open  to  get  father's  coffin 
out.  I  scraped  the  paint  off  then,  and  oiled  the 
hinges,  because  I  knew  mother  wouldn't  last 
long.     And  she  didn't  neither." 

Then  he  told  her  how  there  had  been  no 
money  to  carry  on  the  fruit-growing,  and  how 
his  sister  had  married  a  greengrocer  at  Buxton, 
and  when  everything  went  wrong  he  had  come 
to  lend  a  hand  with  their  business. 

"  And  now  I  takes  the  rounds,"  said  he  ;  "  it's 
more  to  my  mind  nor  mimming  in  the  shop  and 
being  perlite  to  ladies." 

"  You're  very  polite  to  m^,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  but  you're  not  a  lady  — 
leastways,  I'm  sure  you  are  in  your  'art  —  but 
you  ain't  a  regular  tip-topper,  are  you,  now  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,"  she  said,  "  perhaps  not  that." 

It  piqued  her  that  he  should  not  have  seen 
that  she  was  a  lady  —  and  yet  it  pleased  her  too. 
It  was  a  tribute  to  her  power  of  adapting  herself 
to  her  environment. 

The  cart  rattled  gaily  on  —  he  talked  with 
more  and  more  confidence;  she  with  a  more 
and  more  pleased  consciousness  of  her  perfect 
tact.     As  they  went  a  beautiful  idea   came  to 


136  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

her.  She  would  do  the  thing  thoroughly  —  why 
not  ?     The  episode  might  as  well  be  complete. 

"  I  wish  you'd  let  me  help  you  to  sell  the 
things,"  she  said.     "  I  should  like  it." 

"  Wouldn't  you  be  above  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  she  answered  gaily.  "  Only  I 
must  learn  the  prices  of  things.  Tell  me.  How 
much  are  the  herrings?" 

He  told  her  —  and  at  the  first  village  she  suc- 
cessfully sold  seven  herrings,  five  haddocks,  three 
score  of  potatoes,  and  so  many  separate  pounds 
of  apples  that  she  lost  count. 

He  was  lavish  of  his  praises. 

"  You  might  have  been  brought  up  to  it  from 
a  girl,"  he  said,  and  she  wondered  how  old  he 
thought  she  was  then. 

She  yawned  no  more  over  dull  novels  now  — 
Buxton  no  longer  bored  her.  She  had  suddenly 
discovered  a  new  life  —  a  new  stage  on  which  to 
play  a  part,  her  own  ability  in  mastering  which 
filled  her  with  the  pleasure  of  a  clever  child,  or 
a  dog  who  has  learned  a  new  trick.  Of  course, 
it  was  not  a  new  trick  ;  it  was  the  old  one. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  go  out  with  the 
greengrocer  every  day.     What  else  was  there  to 


THE   FOECE   OF   HABIT  137 

do  ?  How  else  could  she  exercise  her  most  per 
fectly  developed  talent  —  that  of  smiling  ou 
people  till  they  loved  her  ?  We  all  like  to  do 
that  which  we  can  do  best.  And  she  never  felt 
so  contented  as  when  she  was  exercising  this  in- 
contestable talent  of  hers.  She  did  not  know  the 
talent  for  what  it  was.  She  called  it  "  being 
nice  to  people." 

So  every  day  saw  her,  with  roses  freshening 
in  her  cheeks,  driving  over  the  moors  in  the 
wheeled  tea-tray.  And  now  she  sold  regularly. 
One  day  he  said  — 

"  What  a  wife  you'd  make  for  a  business 
chap  !  "  But  even  that  didn't  warn  her,  because 
she  happened  to  be  thinking  of  Jack  —  and  she 
thought  how  good  a  wife  she  meant  to  be  to 
him.     He  was  a  *'  business  chap  "  too. 

"  What  are  you  really  —  by  trade,  I  mean  ?  " 
he  said  on  another  occasion. 

"  Nothing  in  particular.  What  did  you  think 
I  was  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh  —  I  dunno  —  I  thought  a  lady's  maid,  as 
likely  as  not,  or  maybe  in  the  dressmaking.  You 
aren't  a  common  sort  —  anyone  can  see  that." 

Again  pique  and  pleasure  fought  in  her. 


138  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

She  never  so  much  as  thought  of  telling  hmi 
that  she  was  married.  She  saw  no  reason  for  it. 
It  was  her  role  to  enter  into  his  life,  not  to  daz- 
zle him  with  visions  of  hers. 

At  last  that  happened  which  was  bound  to  hap- 
pen. And  it  happened  under  the  shadow  of  a 
great  rock,  in  a  cleft,  green-grown  and  sheltered, 
where  the  road  runs  beside  the  noisy,  stony, 
rapid,  unnavigable  river. 

He  had  drawn  the  cart  up  on  the  grass,  and 
she  had  got  down  and  was  sitting  on  a  stone 
eating  sandwiches,- for  her  nurse  had  persuaded 
her  to  take  her  lunch  with  her  so  as  to  spend 
every  possible  hour  on  these  life-giving  moors. 
He  had  eaten  bread  and  cheese  standing  by 
the  horse's  head.  It  was  a  holiday.  He  was 
not  selling  fish  and  vegetables.  He  was  in  his 
best,  and  she  had  never  liked  him  so  little.  As 
she  finished  her  last  dainty  bite  he  threw  away 
the  crusts  and  rinds  of  his  meal  and  came  over 
to  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  an  abrupt  tenderness 
that  at  once  thrilled  and  revolted  her,  "  don't 
you  think  it's  time  as  we  settled  something 
betwixt  us  ?  " 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  139 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 
But,  quite  suddenly  and  terribly,  she  did. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  I  know  well  enough  you're 
miles  too  good  for  a  chap  like  me  —  but  if  you 
don't  tliink  so,  that's  all  right.  And  I  tell  you 
straight,  you're  the  onl}^  girl  I  ever  so  much  as 
fancied." 

"  Oh,"  she  breathed,  "  do  you  mean  —  " 

"  You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean,  my 
pretty,"  he  said ;  "  but  if  you  want  it  said  out 
like  in  books,  I've  got  it  all  on  my  tongue.  I 
love  every  inch  of  you,  and  your  clever  ways, 
and  your  pretty  talk.  I  haven't  touched  a  drop 
these  eight  months  —  I  shall  get  on  right  enough 
with  you  to  help  me  —  and  we'll  be  so  happy  as 
never  was.  There  ain't  ne'er  a  man  in  Eng- 
land'll  set  more  store  by  his  wife  nor  I  will  by 
you,  nor  be  prouder  on  her.  You  shan't  do  no 
hard  work  —  I  promise  you  that.  Only  just 
drive  out  with  me  and  turn  the  customers  round 
your  finger.  I  don't  ask  no  questions  about  you 
nor  your  folks.  I  Tcnow  you're  an  Jionest  girl, 
and  I'd  trust  you  with  my  head.  Come,  give 
me  a  kiss,  love,  and  call  it  a  bargain." 

She  had  stood  up  while  he  was  speaking,  but 


140  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

she  literally  could  not  find  words  to  stop  the 
flow  of  his  speech.  Now  she  shrank  back  and 
said,  ''  No  —  no  !  " 

"  Don't  you  be  so  shy,  my  dear,"  he  said. 
"  Come  —  just  one  !  And  then  I'll  take  you 
home  and  interduce  you  to  my  sister.  You'll 
like  her.     I've  told  her  all  about  you." 

Waves  of  unthinkable  horror  seemed  to  be 
closing  over  her  head.  She  struck  out  bravely, 
and  it  seemed  as  though  she  were  swimming  for 
her  life. 

"  No,"  she  cried,  "  it's  impossible  !  You  don't 
understand  !     You  don't  know  !  " 

"  I  know  you've  been  keeping  company  with 
me  these  ten  days,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  had 
changed.  "  What  did  you  do  it  for  if  you  didn't 
mean  nothing  by  it  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know,"  she  said  wretchedly.  "  I 
thought  you  liked   being  friends." 

"  If  it's  what  you  call  '  friends,'  being  all 
day  long  with  a  chap,  I  don't  so  call  it,"  he 
said.  "But  come  —  you're  playing  skittish  now, 
ain't  you  ?  Don't  tease  a  chap  like  this.  Can't 
you  see  I  love  you  too  much  to  stand  it  ?  I 
know    it    sounds    silly    to   say   it  —  but    I   love 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  141 

you  before  all  the  world  —  I  do  —  my  word  I 
do!" 

He  held  out  his  arms. 

"  I  see  —  I  see  you  do,"  she  cried,  all  her  tact 
washed  away  by  this  mighty  sea  that  had  sud- 
denly swept  over  her.  "  But  I  can't.  I'm  — 
I'm  en  —  I'm  promised  to  another  young  man." 

"  I  wonder  what  he'll  say  to  this,"  he  said 
slowly. 

"  I'm  so  —  so  sorry,"  she  said ;  "  I'd  no 
idea  —  " 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  you  was  just  passing  the 
time  with  me  —  and  you  never  wanted  me  at 
all.  And  I  thought  you  did.  Get  in,  miss.  I'll 
take  you  back  to  the  town.  I've  just  about 
had  enough  holiday  for  one  day." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  kept  saying.  But  he 
never  answered. 

"Do  forgive  me  !  "  she  said  at  last.  " Indeed, 
I  didn't  mean  —  " 

"Didn't  mean,"  said  he,  lashing  up  the  brown 
horse  ;  "  no  —  and  it  don't  matter  to  you  if  I 
think  about  you  and  want  you  every  day  and 
every  night  so  long  as  I  live.  It  ain't  nothing 
to  you.     You've  had  your  fun.     And  you've  got 


142  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

3"our  sweetheart.  God,  I  wish  him  joy  of 
you  ! " 

a  Ah  —  don't,"  she  said,  and  her  soft  voice 
even  here,  even  now,  did  not  miss  its  effect. 
"  I  do  like  you  very,  very  much  —  and  —  " 

She  had  never  failed.  She  did  not  fail  now. 
Before  they  reached  tlie  town  he  had  formally 
forgiven  her. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  meant  no  harm,"  he 
said  grudgingly  ;  ''  though  coming  from  Kent  3^ou 
ought  to  know  how  it  is  about  walking  out 
with  a  chap.  But  you  say  you  didn't,  and  I'll 
believe  you.  But  I  shan't  get  over  this,  this 
many  a  long  day,  so  don't  you  make  no  mistake. 
Why,  I  ain't  thought  o'  nothing  else  but  you 
ever  since  I  first  set  eyes  on  j^ou.  There  — 
don't  you  cry  no  more.  I  can't  abear  to  see  you 
cry." 

He  was  blinking  himself. 

Outside  the  town  he  stopped. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't  got  nothing 
agin  you  —  but  I  wish  to  Lord  above  I'd  never 
seen  you.  I  shan't  never  fancy  no  one  else  after 
you." 

"  Don't  be  unhappy,"  she  said.     And  then  she 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  143 

ought  to  have  said  good-bye.  But  the  devil  we 
call  the  force  of  habit  would  not  let  her  leave 
well  alone. 

"  I  want  to  give  yon  something,"  she  said ; 
"a  keepsake,  to  sho\/  I  shall  always  be  your 
friend.  Will  you  call  at  the  house  where  I'm 
staying  this  evening  at  eight  ?  I'll  have  it 
ready  for  you.  Don't  think  too  unkindly  of 
me  !     Will  you  come  ?  " 

He  asked  the  address,  and  said  "Yes."  He 
wanted  to  see  her  —  just  once  again,  and  he 
would  certainly  like  the  keepsake. 

She  went  home  and  looked  out  a  beautiful 
book  of  Kentish  photographs.  It  was  a  wed- 
ding present,  and  she  had  brought  it  with  her 
to  solace  her  in  her  exile  by  pictures  of  the 
home-land.  Her  unconscious  thought  was  some- 
thing like  this :  "  Poor  fellow ;  poor,  poor  fel- 
low !  But  he  behaved  like  a  gentleman  about 
it.  I  suppose  there  is  something  in  the  influ- 
ence of  a  sympathetic  woman  —  I  am  glad  I 
was  a  good  influence." 

She  bathed  her  burning  face,  cooled  it  with 
soft  powder,  and  slipped  into  a  tea-gown.  It 
was  a  trousseau  one  of  rich,  heavy,  yellow  silk 


144  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

and  old  lace  and  fur.  She  chose  it  because  it 
was  warm,  and  she  was  shivering  with  agita- 
tion and  misery.  Then  she  went  and  sat  with 
the  old  nurse,  and  a  few  minutes  before  eight 
she  ran  out  and  stood  by  the  front  door  so  as 
to  open  it  before  he  should  knock.  She 
achieved  this. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  and  led  him  into  the 
lodging-house  parlour  and  closed  the  door. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  come,"  she  said, 
taking  the  big,  beautiful  book  from  the  table. 
"  This  is  what  I  want  you  to  take,  just  to 
remind  you  that  we're  friends." 

She  had  forgotten  the  tea-gown.  She  was 
not  conscious  that  the  accustomed  suavity  of 
line,  the  soft  richness  of  texture  influenced 
voice,  gait,  smile,  gesture.  But  they  did.  Her 
face  was  flushed  after  her  tears,  and  the  powder, 
which  she  had  forgotten  to  dust  off,  added  the 
last  touch  to  her  beauty. 

He  took  the  book,  but  he  never  even  glanced 
at  the  silver  and  tortoise-shell  of  its  inlaid  cover. 
He  was  looking  at  her,  and  his  eyes  were  cov- 
etous and  angry. 

"  Are  you  an  actress,  or  what  ?  " 


THE   FORCE   OF   HABIT  145 

"  No,"  she  said,  shrinking.     "Why  ?  " 

"  What  the  hell  are  you,  then  ? "  he  snarled 
furiously. 

a  I'm  —  I'm  —  a  —  " 

The  old  nurse,  scared  by  the  voice  raised  be- 
yond discretion,  had  dragged  herself  to  the  door 
of  division  between  her  room  and  the  parlour, 
and  now  stood  clinging  to  the   door  handle. 

"  She's  a  lady,  young  man,"  said  the  nurse 
severely ;  "  and  her  aunt's  a  lady  of  title,  and 
don't  you  forget  it !  " 

"Forget  it,"  he  cried,  with  a  laugh  that 
Jack's  wife  remembers  still ;  "  she's  a  lady,  and 
she's  fooled  me  this  way  ?  I  won't  forget  it, 
nor  she  shan't  neither !  By  God,  I'll  give  her 
something  to  forget !  " 

With  that  he  caught  the  silken  tea-gown  and 
Jack's  trembling  wife  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
more  than  once.  They  were  horrible  kisses,  and 
the  man  smelt  of  onions  and  hair-oil. 

"  And  I  loved  her  —  curse  her  !  "  he  cried, 
flinging  her  away,  so  that  she  fell  against  the 
arm  of  the  chair  by  the  fire. 

He  went  out,  slamming  both  doors.  She  had 
softened  and  bewitched  him  to  the  forgiving  of 


146  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

the  outrage  that  her  indifference  was  to  his  love. 
The  outrage  of  her  station's  condescension  to  his 
was  unforgivable. 

Mm  ^  ^  4^  M,  M, 

•?P  "W  TP  tF  TT  *7F 

She  went  back  to  her  Jack  next  day.  She 
was  passionately  glad  to  see  him.  "  Oh,  Jack," 
she  said,  "  I'll  never,  never  go  away  from  you 
again ! " 

jj^  J&.  jfi,  j^  ^  ^ 

•71*  ^  ^P  ^  Tr  T> 

But  the  greengrocer  from  Kent  reeled  down 
the  street  to  the  nearest  public-house.  At  clos- 
ing time  he  was  telling,  in  muffled,  muddled 
speech,  the  wondrous  tale,  how  his  girl  was  a 
real  lady,  awfully  gone  on  him,  pretty  as  paint, 
and  wore  silk  dresses  every  day. 

"  She's  a  real  lady  —  she  is,"  he  said. 

"  Ay  !  "  said  the  chucker  out,  "  we  know  all 
about  them  sort  o'  ladies.     Time,  please  !  " 

"  I  tell  you  she  is  —  her  aunt's  a  lady  of  title, 
and  the  gal's  that  gone  on  me  I  expect  I'll  have 
to  marry  her  to  keep  her  quiet." 

"  I'll  have  to  chuck  you  out  to  keep  yoti  c^uiet,'* 
returned  the  other.     "  Come  on  —  outside  !  " 


THE   BRUTE 

THE  pearl  of  the  dawn  was  not  yet  dissolved 
in  the  gold  cup  of  the  sunshine,  but  in  the 
northwest  the  dripping  opal  waves  were  ebbing 
fast  to  the  horizon,  and  the  sun  was  already  iialf 
risen  from  his  couch  of  dull  crimson.  She  leaned 
out  of  her  window.  By  fortunate  chance  it  was 
a  jasmine-muffled  lattice,  as  a  girl's  window 
should  be,  and  looked  down  on  the  dewy  still- 
ness of  the  garden.  The  cloudy  shadows  that 
had  clung  in  the  earliest  dawn  about  the  lilac 
bushes  and  rhododendrons  had  faded  like  grey 
ghosts,  and  slowly  on  lawn  and  bed  and  path 
new  black  shadows  were  deepening  and  intensi- 
fying. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  What  a  picture ! 
The  green  garden,  the  awakened  birds,  the  roses 
that  still  looked  asleep,  the  scented  jasmine 
stars  !  She  saw  and  loved  it  all.  Nor  was  she 
unduly  insensible   to   the  charm  of  the  central 

147 


148  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

figure,  the  girl  in  the  white  lace-trimmed  gown 
who  leaned  her  soft  arms  on  the  window-sill  and 
looked  out  on  the  dawn  with  large  dark  eyes. 
Of  course,  she  knew  that  her  eyes  were  large 
and  dark,  also  that  her  hair  was  now  at  its 
prettiest,  rumpled  and  tumbled  from  the  pillow, 
and  far  prettier  so  than  one  dared  to  allow  it  to 
be  in  the  daytime.  It  seemed  a  pity  that  there 
should  be  no  one  in  the  garden  save  the  birds, 
no  one  who  had  awakened  thus  early  just  that 
he  might  gather  a  rose  and  cover  it  with  kisses 
and  throw  it  up  to  the  window  of  his  pretty 
sweetheart.  She  had  but  recently  learned  that 
she  was  pretty.  It  was  on  the  evening  after  the 
little  dance  at  the  Rectory.  She  had  worn  red 
roses  at  her  neck,  and  when  she  had  let  down 
her  hair  she  had  picked  up  the  roses  from  her 
dressing-table  and  stuck  them  in  the  loose,  rough, 
brown  mass,  and  stared  into  the  glass  till  she 
was  half  mesmerised  by  her  own  dark  eyes. 
She  had  come  to  herself  with  a  start,  and  then 
she  had  known  quite  surely  that  she  was  pretty 
enough  to  be  anyone's  sweetheart.  When  she 
was  a  child  a  well-meaning  aunt  had  told  her 
that  as  she  would  never  be  pretty  or  clever  she 


THE   BRUTE  149 

had  better  try  to  be  good,  or  no  one  would  love 
her.  She  had  tried,  and  she  had  never  till  that 
red-rose  day  doubted  that  such  goodness  as  she 
had  achieved  must  be  her  only  claim  to  love. 
Now  she  knew  better,  and  she  looked  out  of  her 
window  at  the  brightening  sky  and  the  deepen- 
ing shadows.  But  there  was  no  one  to  throw 
her  a  rose  with  kisses  on  it. 

"If  I  were  a  man,"  she  said  to  herself,  but 
in  a  very  secret  shadowy  corner  of  her  inmost 
heart,  and  in  a  wordless  whisper,  "if  I  were  a 
man,  I  would  go  out  this  minute  and  find  a 
sweetheart.  She  should  have  dark  eyes,  too, 
and  rough  brown  hair,  and  pink  cheeks." 

In  the  outer  chamber  of  her  mind  she  said 
briskly  — 

"  It's  a  lovely  morning.  It's  a  shame  to  waste 
it  indoors.     I'll  go  out." 

The  sun  was  fully  up  when  she  stole  down 
through  the  still  sleeping  house  and  out  into 
the  garden,  now  as  awake  as  a  lady  in  full  dress 
at  the  court  of  the  King. 

The  garden  gate  fell  to  behind  her,  and  the 
swing  of  her  white  skirts  went  down  the  green 
lane.     On  such  a  morning  who  would  not  wear 


150  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

white  ?  She  walked  with  the  quick  grace  of 
her  nineteen  years,  and  as  she  went  fragments 
of  the  undigested  poetry  that  had  been  her  liter- 
ary diet  of  late  swirled  in  her  mind  — 

"  With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again, 
The  maiden  spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain," 

and  so  on,  though  this  was  July,  and  not  spring 
at  all.      And  — 

"  A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss 
And  all  his  worldly  work  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips." 

Her  own  lips  were  not  perfect,  yet,  as  lips 
went,  they  were  well  enough,  and,  anyway, 
kisses  would  not  be  wasted  on  them. 

She  went  down  the  lane,  full  of  the  anxious 
trembling  longing  that  is  youth's  unrecognised 
joy,  and  at  the  corner,  where  the  lane  meets  the 
high  white  road,  she  met  him.  That  is  to  say, 
she  stopped  short,  as  the  whispering  silence  of 
the  morning  was  broken  by  a  sudden  rattle  and 
a  heavy  thud,  not  pleasant  to  hear.  And  he  and 
his  bicycle  fell  together,  six  yards  from  her  feet. 


THE   BRUTE  151 

The  bicycle  bounded,  and  twisted,  and  settled 
itself  down  with  bold,  resentful  clatterings. 
The  man  lay  without  moving. 

Her  Tennyson  quotations  were  swept  away. 
She  ran  to  help. 

"  Oh,  are  you  hurt  ?  "  she  said.  He  lay  quite 
still.  There  was  blood  on  his  head,  and  one 
arm  was  doubled  under  his  back.  What  could 
she  do  ?  She  tried  to  lift  him  from  the  road 
to  the  grass  edge  of  it.  He  was  a  big  man,  but 
she  did  succeed  in  raising  his  shoulders,  and  free- 
ing that  right  arm.  As  she  lifted  it,  he  groaned. 
She  sat  down  in  the  dust  of  the  road,  and  low- 
ered his  shoulders  till  his  head  lay  on  her  lap. 
Then  she  tied  her  handkerchief  round  his  head, 
and  waited  till  someone  should  pass  on  the  way 
to  work.  Three  men  and  a  boy  came  after  the 
long  half  hour  in  which  he  lay  unconscious,  the 
red  patch  on  her  handkerchief  spreading  slowly, 
and  she  looking  at  him,  and  getting  by  heart 
every  line  of  the  pale,  worn,  handsome  face. 
She  spoke  to  him,  she  stroked  his  hair.  She 
touched  his  white  cheek  with  her  finger-tips,  and 
wondered  about  him,  and  pitied  him,  and  took 
possession  of  him  as  a  new  and  precious  appa- 


152  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

nage  of  her  life,  so  that  when  the  labourers 
appeared,  she  said  — 

"  He's  very  badly  hurt.  Go  and  fetch  some 
more  men  and  a  hurdle,  and  the  boy  might  run 
for  the  doctor.  Tell  him  to  come  to  the  White 
House.  It's  nearest,  and  it  may  be  dangerous  to 
move  him  further." 

"  The  '  Blue  Lion  '  ain't  but  a  furlong  further, 
miss,"  said  one  of  the  men,  touching  his  cap. 

"  It's  much  inore  than  that,"  said  she,  who 
had  but  the  vaguest  notion  of  a  furlong's  length. 
"  Do  go  and  do  what  I  tell  you." 

They  w^ent,  and,  as  they  went,  remorselessly 
dissected,  with  the  bluntest  instruments,  her 
motives  and  her  sentiments.  It  was  not  hidden 
from  them,  that  wordless  whisper  in  the  shadowy 
inner  chamber  of  her  heart.  "  Perhaps  the  '  Blue 
Lion  '  isn't  so  very  much  further,  but  I  can't  give 
him  up.  No,  I  can't."  But  it  was  almost  hidden 
from  her.     In  her  mind's  outer  hall  she  said  — 

"  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  take  him  home.  No 
girl  in  a  book  would  hesitate.  And  I  can  make 
it  all  right  with  mother.  It  would  be  cruel  to 
give  him  up  to  strangers." 

Deep  in  her  heart  the  faint  whisper  fol- 
lowed — 


THE   BRUTE  163 

"  1  found  him ;  he's  mine.  I  won't  let 
him  go." 

He  stirred  a  little  before  they  came  back  with 
the  hurdle,  and  she  took  his  uninjured  hand,  and 
pressed  it  firmly  and  kindly,  and  told  him  it  was 
"  all  right,"  he  would  feel  better  presently. 

She  did  have  him  carried  home,  and  when  the 
doctor  had  set  the  arm  and  the  collar-bone,  and 
had  owned  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  move 
him  at  present,  she  knew  that  her  romance 
would  not  be  cut  short  just  yet.  She  did  not 
nurse  him,  because  it  is  only  in  books  that 
young  girls  of  the  best  families  act  as  sick- 
nurses  to  gentlemen.  But  her  mother  —  dear, 
kind,  clever,  foolish  gentlewoman  —  did  the 
nursing,  and  the  daughter  gathered  flowers  daily 
to  brighten  his  room.  And  when  he  was  better, 
yet  still  not  well  enough  to  resume  the  bicycle 
tour  so  sharply  interrupted  by  a  flawed  nut,  she 
read  to  him,  and  talked  to  him,  and  sat  with 
him  in  the  hushed  August  garden.  Up  to  this 
point,  observe,  her  interest  had  been  purely 
romantic.  He  was  a  man  of  forty-five.  Per- 
haps he  had  a  younger  brother,  a  splendid  young 
man,  and  the  brother  would  like  her  because  she 


154  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

had  been  kind.  He  had  lived  long  abroad,  had 
no  relatives  in  England.  He  knew  her  Cousin 
Reginald  at  Johannesburg  —  everyone  knev^ 
everyone  else  out  there.  The  brother  —  there 
really  was  a  brother  —  would  come  .some  day  to 
thank  her  mother  for  all  her  goodness,  and  she 
woul^  be  at  the  window  and  look  down,  and  he 
would  look  up,  and  the  lamp  of  life  would  be 
lighted.  She  longed,  with  heart-whole  earnest- 
ness, to  be  in  love  with  someone,  for  as  yet  she 
was  only  in  love  with  love. 

But  on  the  evening  when  there  was  a  full 
moon  —  the  time  of  madness  as  everybody 
knows  —  her  mother  falling  asleep  after  dinner 
in  her  cushioned  chair  in  the  lamp  lit  drawing- 
room,  he  and  she  wandered  out  into  the  garden. 
They  sat  on  the  seat  under  the  great  apple  tree. 
He  was  talking  gently  of  kindness  and  gratitude, 
and  of  how  he  would  soon  be  well  enough  to  go 
away.  She  listened  in  silence,  and  presently  he 
grew  silent,  too,  under  the  spell  of  the  moon- 
light. She  never  knew  exactly  how  it  was  that 
he  took  her  hand,  but  he  was  holding  it  gently, 
strongly,  as  if  he  would  never  let  it  go.  Their 
shoulders  touched.     The  silence  grew  deeper  and 


THE   BRUTE  155 

deeper.  She  sighed  involuntarily  ;  not  because 
she  was  unhappy,  but  because  her  heart  was 
beating  so  fast.  Both  were  looking  straight 
before  them  into  the  moonlight.  Suddenly  he 
turned,  put  his  other  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  lips.  At  that  instant  her 
mother  called  her,  and  she  went  into  the  lamp- 
light. She  said  good  night  at  once.  She  wanted 
to  be  alone,  to  realise  the  great  and  wonderful 
awakening  of  her  nature,  its  awakening  to  love 
—  for  this  was  love,  the  love  the  poets  sang 
about  — 

"  A  kiss,  a  touch,  the  charm  was  snapped." 

She  wanted  to  be  alone  to  think  about  him. 
But  she  did  not  think.  She  hugged  to  her  heart 
the  physical  memory  of  that  strong  magnetic 
hand-clasp,  the  touch  of  those  smooth  sensitive 
lips  on  hers  —  held  it  close  to  her  till  she  fell 
asleep,  still  thrilling  with  the  ecstasy  of  her  first 
lover's  kiss. 

Next  day  they  were  formally  engaged,  and 
now  her  life  became  an  intermittent  delirium. 
She  longed  always  to  be  alone  with  him,  to 
touch  his  hands,  to  feel  his  cheek  against  hers. 
She  could  not  understand  the  pleasure  which  he 


156  THE   LITERARY  SENSE 

said  he  felt  in  just  sitting  near  her  and  watching 
her  sewing  or  reading,  as  he  sat  talking  to  her 
mother  of  dull  things  —  politics,  and  the  war, 
and  landscape  gardening.  If  she  had  been  a 
man,  she  said  to  herself,  always  far  down  in  her 
heart,  she  would  have  found  a  way  to  sit  near 
the  beloved,  so  that  at  least  hands  might  meet 
now  and  then  unseen.  But  he  disliked  public 
demonstrations,  and  he  loved  her.  She,  however, 
was  merely  in  love  with  him. 

That  was  why,  when  he  went  away,  she  found 
it  so  difficult  to  write  to  him.  She  thought  his 
letters  cold,  though  they  told  her  of  all  his  work, 
his  aims,  ambitions,  hopes,  because  not  more 
than  half  a  page  was  filled  with  lover's  talk. 
He  could  have  written  very  different  letters  — 
indeed,  he  had  written  such  in  his  time,  and  to 
more  than  one  address ;  but  he  w^as  wise  with 
the  wisdom  of  forty  years,  and  he  was  begin- 
ning to  tremble  for  her  happiness,  because  he 
loved  her. 

When  she  complained  that  his  letters  were 
cold  he  knew  that  he  had  been  wise.  She  found 
it  very  difficult  to  write  to  him.  It  was  far 
easier  to  write  to  Cousin  Reginald,  who  always 


THE   BRUTE  157 

wrote  such  long,  interesting  letters,  all  about 
interesting  things  —  Cousin  Reginald  who  had 
lived  wdth  them  at  the  White  House  till  a  year 
ago,  and  who  knew  all  the  little  family  jokes, 
and  the  old  family  worries. 

They  had  been  engaged  for  eight  months  when 
he  came  down  to  see  her  without  any  warning 
letter. 

She  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room  when  he 
was  announced,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy,  she  let 
fall  her  work  on  the  floor,  and  ran  to  meet  him 
with  arms  outstretched.     He  caught  her  wrists. 

"  No,"  he  said,  and  the  light  of  joy  in  her  face 
made  it  not  easy  to  say  it.  "  My  dear,  I've  come 
to  say  something  to  you,  and  I  mustn't  kiss  you 
till  I've  said  it." 

The  light  had  died  out. 

"  You're  not  tired  of  me  ?  " 

He  laughed.  "  No,  not  tired  of  you,  my  little 
princess,  but  I  am  going  away  for  a  year.  If 
you  still  love  me  when  I  come  back  we'll  be 
married.  But  before  I  go  I  must  say  something 
to  you." 

Her  eyes  were  streaming  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  ?  "  she  said,  and 


158  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

her  longing  to  cling  to  him,  to  reassure  herself 
by  personal  contact,  set  her  heart  beating  wildly. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  cruel,"  he  said ;  "  you 
understand,  dear,  that  I  love  you,  and  it's  just 
because  I  love  you  that  I  must  say  it.  Now  sit 
down  there  and  let  me  speak.  Don't  interrupt 
me  if  you  can  help  it.  Consider  it  a  sort  of 
lecture  you're  bound  to  sit  through." 

He  pushed  her  gently  towards  a  chair.  She 
sat  down  sulkily,  awkwardly,  and  he  stood  by 
the  window,  looking  out  at  the  daffodils  and 
early  tulips. 

"Dear,  I  am  afraid  I  have  found  something 
out.     I  don't  think  you  love  me  —  " 

"  Oh,  how  can  you,  how  can  you  ?  " 

"  Be  patient,"  he  said.  "  I've  wondered  almost 
from  the  first.  You're  almost  a  child,  and  I'm 
an  old  man  —  oh,  no,  I  don't  mean  that  that's 
any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  love  me,  but  it's 
a  reason  for  my  making  very  sure  that  you  do 
before  I  let  you  marry  me.  It's  your  happi- 
ness I  have  to  think  of  most.  Now  shall  I  just 
go  away  for  a  year,  or  shall  I  speak  straight  out 
and  tell  you  everything  ?  If  your  father  were 
alive  I  would  try  to  tell  him ;  I  can't  tell  your 


THE    BRUTE  159 

mother,  she  wouldn't  understand.  You  can  un- 
derstand.    Shall  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  fright- 
ened eyes. 

"  Well :  look  back.  You  think  you  love  me. 
Haven't  my  letters  always  bored  you  a  little, 
though  they  were  about  all  the  things  I  care  for 
most  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  politics,"  she  said  sullenly. 

"  And  I  don't  understand  needle-w^ork,  but  I 
could  sit  and  watch  you  sew  for  ever  and  a 
day." 

"  Well,  go  on.  What  other  crime  have  I  com- 
mitted besides  not  going  into  raptures  over  Par- 
liament ?  " 

She  was  growing  angry,  and  he  was  glad.  It 
is  not  so  easy  to  hurt  people  when  they  are 
angry. 

"  And  when  I  am  talking  to  your  mother,  that 
bores  you  too,  and  when  we  are  alone,  you  don't 
care  to  talk  of  anything,  but  —  but  —  " 

This  task  was  harder  than  he  had  imagined 
possible. 

"  I've  loved  you  too  much,  and  I've  shown  it 
too  plainly,"  she  said  bitterly. 


160  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  My  dear,  you've  never  loved  me  at  all.  You 
have  only  been  in  love  w^ith  me." 

"  And  isn't  that  the  same  thing  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  it's  no  use,"  he  said,  "  I  must  he  a  brute 
then.  No,  it's  not  the  same  thing.  It's  your 
poets  and  novelists  who  pretend  it  is.  It's  they 
who  have  taught  you  all  wrong.  It's  only  half 
of  love,  and  the  worst  half,  the  most  untrust- 
worthy, the  least  lasting.  My  little  girl,  when 
I  kissed  you  first,  you  were  just  waking  up  to 
your  womanhood,  you  were  ready  for  love,  as 
a  fiower-bud  is  ready  for  sunshine,  and  I  hap- 
pened to  be  the  first  man  who  had  the  chance 
to  kiss  you  and  hold  your  dear  little  hands." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  should  have  liked  any- 
one else  as  well  if  he  had  only  been  kind  enough 
to  kiss  me  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  but  ...  I  wish  girls  were  taught 
these  things  out  of  books.  If  you  only  knew 
what  it  costs  me  to  be  honest  with  you,  how  I 
have  been  tempted  to  let  you  marry  me  and. 
chance  everything !  Don't  you  see  you're  a 
woman  now  —  women  were  made  to  be  kissed, 
and  when  a  man  behaves  like  a  brute  and  kisses 
a  girl  without  even  asking  first,  or  finding  out 


THE   BRUTE  161 

first  whether  she  loves  him,  it's  not  fair  on  the 
girl.  I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  Don't  you 
see  I  took  part  of  you  by  storm,  the  part  of  you 
that  is  just  v^oman  nature,  not  yours  but  every- 
one's ;  and  how  were  you  to  know  that  you 
didn't  love  me,  that  it  was  only  the  awakening 
of  your  woman  nature  ?  " 

"  I  hate  you,"  she  said  briefly. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  simply,  "  I  knew  you 
would.      Hate  is  only  one  step  from  passion." 

She  rose  in  a  fury.  "  How  dare  you  use  that 
word  to  me  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  you  are  a  brute  ! 
You  are  quite  right :  I  don't  love  you  —  I  hate 
you,  I  despise  you.     Oh,  you  brute  !  " 

"  Don't,"  he  said ;  «'  I  only  used  that  word 
because  it's  what  people  call  the  thing  when 
it's  a  man  who  feels  it.  With  you  it's  what  I 
said,  the  unconscious  awakening  of  the  woman- 
hood God  gave  you.  Try  to  forgive  me.  Have 
I  said  anything  so  very  dreadful  ?  It's  a  very 
little  thing,  dear,  the  sweet  kindness  you've 
felt  for  me.  It's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  or 
angry  about.  It's  not  a  hundredth  part  of  what 
I  have  felt  when  you  have  kissed  me.  It's  be- 
cause   it's  such   a  poor  foundation  to    build    a 

M 


162  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

home  on  that  I  am  frightened  for  you.  Suppose 
you  got  tired  of  my  kisses,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing more  in  me  that  you  did  care  for.  And  that 
sort  of  .  .  .  lover's  love  doesn't  last  for  ever  — 
v^ithout  the  other  kind  of  love  —  " 

"  Oh,  don't  say  any  more,"  she  cried,  jumping 
up  from  her  chair.  "  I  did  love  you  w^ith  all 
my  heart.  I  v^as  sorry  for  you.  I  thought  you 
v^ere  so  different.  Oh,  how^  could  you  say  these 
things  to  me  ?     Go  !  " 

"  Shall  I  come  back  in  a  year  ? "  he  asked, 
smiling  rather  sadly. 

"  Come  back  ?  Never  !  I'll  never  speak  to 
you  again.  I'll  never  see  you  again.  I  hope  to 
God  I  shall  never  hear  your  name  again.  Go 
at  once ! " 

"  You'll  be  grateful  to  me  some  day,"  he  said, 
"  when  you've  found  out  that  love  and  being  in 
love  are  not  the  same  thing." 

"  What  is  love,  then  ?  The  kind  of  love  you^d 
care  for  ?  " 

"  I  care  for  it  all,"  he  said.  "  I  think  love  is 
tenderness,  esteem,  affection,  interest,  pity,  pro- 
tection, and  passion.  Yes,  you  needn't  be 
frightened    by  the    word ;  it   is    the    force    that 


THE   BRUTE  163 

moves  the  world,  but  it's  only  a  part  of  love. 
Oh,  I  see  it's  no  good.  God  bless  you,  child : 
you'll  understand   some   day !  " 

She  does  understand  now;  she  has  married 
her  Cousin  Reginald,  and  she  understands  deeply 
and  completely.  But  she  only  admits  this  in 
that  deep,  shadowy,  almost  disowned  corner 
of  her  heart.  In  the  reception  room  of  her 
mind  she  still  thinks  of  her  first  lover  as  "  That 
Brute ! " 


DICK,  TOM,  AND  HARRY 

"  4  ND  so  I  look  in  to  see  her  whenever  I  can 
-^^jL  spare  half  an  hour.  I  fancy  it  cheers  her 
up  a  bit  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to  about  Edin- 
burgh—  and  all  that.  You  say  you're  going  to 
tell  her  about  its  having  been  my  doing,  your 
getting  that  berth.  Now,  I  won't  have  it.  You 
promised  you  wouldn't.  I  hate  jaw,  as  you 
know,  and  I  don't  want  to  have  her  gassing 
about  gratitude  and  all  that  rot.  I  don't  like  it, 
even  from  you.  So  stow  all  that  piffle.  You'd 
do  as  much  for  me,  any  day.  I  suppose  Edin- 
burgh is  a  bit  dull,  but  you've  got  all  the  higher 
emotions  of  our  fallen  nature  to  cheer  you  up. 
Essex  Court  is  dull,  if  you  like  !  It's  three  years 
since  I  had  the  place  to  myself,  and  I  tell  you 
it's  pretty  poor  sport.  I  don't  seem  to  care  about 
duchesses  or  the  gilded  halls  nowadays.  Getting 
old,  I  suppose.  Really,  my  sole  recreation  is 
going  to  see  another  man's  girl,  and  letting  her 

165 


166  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

prattle  prettily  about  him.  Lord,  what  fools 
these  mortals  be  !  Sorry  I  couldn't  answer  your 
letter  before.  I  suppose  you'll  be  running  up 
for  Christmas  !  So  long !  I'm  taking  her  down 
those  Ruskins  she  wanted.     Here's  luck  !  " 

The  twisted  knot  of  three  thin  initials  at  the 
end  of  the  letter  stood  for  one  of  the  set  of 
names  painted  on  the  black  door  of  the  Temple 
Chambers.  The  other  names  were  those  of  Tom, 
who  had  strained  a  slender  competence  to 
become  a  barrister,  and  finding  the  achievement 
unremunerative,  had  been  glad  enough  to  get  the 
chance  of  sub-editing  a  paper  in  Edinburgh. 

Dick  enveloped  and  stamped  his  letter,  threw 
it  on  the  table,  and  went  into  his  bedroom. 
When  he  came  back  in  a  better  coat  and  a  newer 
tie  he  looked  at  the  letter  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  he  frowned  all  the  way  down  the 
three  flights  and  as  far  as  Brick  Court.  Here  he 
posted  the  letter.  Then  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders again,  but  after  the  second  shrug  the  set  of 
them  was  firmer. 

As  his  hansom  swung  through  the  dancing 
lights  of  the  Strand,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  for 
the  third  time. 


DICK,   TOM,  AND   HARRY  167 

And,  at  that,  his  tame  devil  came  as  at  a 
signal,  and  drew  a  pretty  curtain  across  all 
thoughts  save  one  —  the  thought  of  the  "  other 
man's  girl."  Indeed,  hardly  a  thought  was  left, 
rather  a  sense  of  her  —  of  those  disquieting  soft 
eyes  of  hers  —  the  pretty  hands,  the  frank  laugh 
—  the  long,  beautiful  lines  her  gowns  took  on  — 
the  unexpected  twists  and  curves  of  her  hair  — 
above  all,  the  reserve,  veiling  tenderness  as  snow- 
flakes  might  veil  a  rose,  with  which  she  spoke  of 
the  other  man. 

Dick  had  known  Tom  for  all  of  their  men's 
lives,  and  they  had  been  friends.  Both  had  said 
so  often  enough.  But  now  he  thought  of  him  as 
the  "  other  man." 

The  lights  flashed  past.  Dick's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  a  picture.  A  pleasant  room  —  an 
artist's  room  —  prints,  sketches,  green  curtains, 
the  sparkle  of  old  china,  fire  and  candle  light. 
A  girl  in  a  long  straight  dress ;  he  could  see  the 
little  line  where  it  would  catch  against  her  knee 
as  she  came  forward  to  meet  him  with  both 
hands  outstretched.  Would  it  be  both  hands  ? 
He  decided  that  it  would  —  to-night. 

He  was  right,  even  to  the  little  line  in  the 
sea-blue  gown. 


168  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

Both  hands  ;  such  long,  thin,  magnetic  hands. 

"  You  are  good,"  she  said  at  once.  "  Oli  — 
you  must  let  me  thank  you.  Tom's  told  me  who 
it  was  that  got  him  that  splendid  berth.  Oh  — 
what  a  friend  you  are  !  And  lending  him  the 
money  and  everything.  I  can't  tell  you  —  It's 
too  much  —     You  are  — " 

"  Don't,"  he  said  ;  "  it's  nothing  at  all." 

"  It's  everything,"  said  she.  "  Tom's  told  me 
quite  all  about  it,  mind  !  I  know  we  owe  every- 
thing to  you." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Harcourt,"  he  began.  But  she 
interrupted  him. 

"Why  not  Harry?"  she  asked.    "I  thought — " 

"  Yes.  Thank  you.  But  it  was  nothing. 
You  see  I  couldn't  let  poor  old  Tom  go  on  break- 
ing his  heart  in  silence,  when  just  writing  a 
letter  or  two  would  put  him  in  a  position  to 
speak." 

She  had  held  his  hands,  or  he  hers,  or  both, 
all  this  time.     Now  she  moved  away  to  the  fire. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  and  be  comfortable," 
she  said.  "  This  is  the  chair  you  like.  And 
I've  got  some  cigarettes,  your  very  own  kind, 
from  the  Stores." 


DICK,    TOM,    AND   HARRY  169 

She  remembered  a  time  when  she  had  thought 
that  it  was  he,  Dick,  who  might  break  his  heart 
for  her.  Tlie  remembrance  of  that  vain  thought 
was  a  constant  pin-prick  to  lier  vanity,  a  con- 
stant affront  to  her  modesty.  She  had  tried  to 
snub  him  in  those  days  —  to  show  him  that  his 
hopes  were  vain.  And  after  all  he  hadn't  had 
any  hopes :  he'd  only  been  anxious  about  Tom  ! 
In  the  desolation  of  her  parting  from  Tom  she 
had  longed  for  sympathy.  Dick  had  given  it, 
and  she  had  been  kinder  to  him  than  she  had 
ever  been  to  any  man  but  her  lover  —  first,  be- 
cause he  was  her  lover's  friend,  and,  secondly, 
because  she  wanted  to  pretend  to  herself  that 
she  had  never  fancied  that  there  was  any  reason 
for  not  being  kind  to  him. 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite  to  his. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  I  won't  thank  you  any 
more,  if  you  hate  it  so  ;  but  you  are  good,  and 
neither  of  us  will  ever  forget  it." 

He  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  He  had  played 
for  this  —  for  this  he  had  delayed  to  answer  the 
letter  wherein  Tom  announced  his  intention  of 
telling  Harriet  the  whole  fair  tale  of  his  friend's 
goodness.     He  had  won  the  trick.     Yet  for  an 


170  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

instant  he  hesitated  to  turn  it  over.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  —  I  will  not  mention  this 
again,  but  it  was  a  tiresome  way  he  had  when 
the  devil  or  the  guardian  angel  were  working 
that  curtain  I  told  you  of  —  and  said  — 

"  Dear  little  lady  —  you  make  me  wish  that  I 
were  good." 

Then  he  sighed :  it  was  quite  a  real  sigh,  and 
she  wondered  whether  he  could  possibly  not  be 
good  right  through.  Was  it  possible  that  he  was 
wicked  in  some  of  those  strange,  mysterious  ways 
peculiar  to  men  :  billiards  ■ —  barmaids  —  opera- 
balls  flashed  into  her  mind.  Perhaps  she  might 
help  him  to  be  good.  She  had  heard  the  usual 
pretty  romances  about  the  influence  of  a  good 
woman. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  light  up  —  and  tell  me  all 
about  everything." 

So  he  told  her  many  things.  And  now  and 
then  he  spoke  of  Tom,  just  to  give  himself  the 
pleasure-pain  of  that  snow-veiled-rose  aspect. 

He  kissed  her  hand  when  he  left  her  —  a  kiss 
of  studied  brotherliness.  Yet  the  kiss  had  in  it 
a  tiny  heart  of  fire,  fierce  enough  to  make  her 
wonder,  when  he  had    left    her,  whether,  after 


DICK,   TOM,   AND   HARRY  171 

all.  .  .  .  But  she  put  the  thought  away  hastily. 
^'  I  may  be  a  vain  fool,"  she  said,  "  but  I  won't 
be  fooled  by  my  vanity  twice  over." 

And  she  kissed  Tom's  portrait  and  went  to 
bed. 

Dick  went  home  in  a  heavenly  haze  of  liappi- 
ness  —  so  he  told  himself  as  he  went.  When  he 
woke  up  at  about  three  o'clock,  and  began  to 
analyse  his  sensations,  he  had  cooled  enough  to 
call  it  an  intoxication  of  pleasurable  emotion. 
At  three  in  the  morning,  if  ever,  the  gilt  is  off 
the  ginger-bread. 

Dick  lay  on  his  back,  his  hands  clenched  at 
his  sides,  and,  gazing  open-eyed  into  the  dark- 
ness, he  saw  many  things.  He  saw  all  the  old 
friendship  :  the  easy,  jolly  life  in  those  rooms, 
the  meeting  with  Harriet  Harcourt  —  it  was  at 
a  fancy-ball,  and  she  wore  the  white-and-black 
dress  of  a  Beardsley  lady  ;  he  remembered  the 
contrast  of  the  dress  with  her  eyes  and  mouth. 

He  saw  the  days  when  his  thoughts  turned 
more  and  more  to  every  chance  of  meeting  her, 
as  though  each  had  been  his  only  chance  of  life. 
He  saw  the  Essex  Court  sitting-room  as  it  had 
looked  on  the  night  when  Tom  had  announced 


172  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

that  Harriet  was  the  only  girl  in  the  world  — 
adding,  at  almost  a  night's  length,  that  impas- 
sioned statement  of  his  hopeless,  financial  con- 
dition.    He  could  hear  Tom's  voice  as  he  said  — 

"  And  I  hnow  she  cares  !  " 

Dick  felt  again  the  thrill  of  pleasure  that  had 
come  with  the  impulse  to  be,  for  once,  really 
noble,  to  efface  himself,  to  give  up  the  pursuit 
that  lighted  his  days,  the  dream  that  enchanted 
his  nights.     His  own  voice,  too,  he  heard  — 

"  Cheer  up,  old  chap  !  We'll  find  a  lucrative 
post  for  you  in  five  minutes,  and  set  the  wedding 
bells  a-ringing  in  half  an  hour,  or  less !  Why  on 
earth  didn't  you  tell  me  before  ?  " 

The  glow  of  conscious  nobility  had  lasted  a 
long  while  —  nearly  a  week,  if  he  recollected 
aright.  Then  had  come  the  choice  of  two  open- 
ings for  Tom,  one  in  London,  and  one,  equally 
good,  in  Edinburgh.  Dick  had  chosen  to  offer 
to  his  friend  the  one  in  Edinburgh.  He  had 
told  himself  then  that  both  lovers  would  work 
better  if  they  were  not  near  enough  to  waste 
each  other's  time,  and  he  had  almost  believed  — 
he  was  almost  sure,  even  now,  that  he  had  almost 
believed  —  that  this  was  the  real  reason. 


DICK,    TOM,   AND   HARRY  173 

But  when  Tom  had  gone  there  had  been  frank 
tears  in  the  lovers'  parting,  and  Dick  had  walked 
up  the  platform  to  avoid  the  embarrassment  of 
witnessing  them. 

'<-  You  beast,  you  brute,  you  hound ! "  said 
Dick  to  himself,  lying  rigid  and  wretched  in  the 
darkness.  "  You  knew  well  enough  that  you 
wanted  him  out  of  the  way.  And  you  promised 
to  look  after  her  and  keep  her  from  being  dull. 
And  you've  done  all  you  can  to  keep  your  word, 
haven't  you  ?  She  hasn't  been  dull,  I  swear. 
And  you've  been  playing  for  your  own  hand  — 
and  that  poor  stupid  honest  chap  down  there 
slaving  away  and  trusting  you  as  he  trusts  God. 
And  you've  written  him  lying  letters  twice  a 
week,  and  betrayed  him,  as  far  as  you  got  the 
chance,  every  day,  and  seen  what  a  cur  you  are, 
every  night,  as  you  see  it  now.  Oh,  yes  — 
you're  succeeding  splendidly.  She  forgets  to 
think  of  Tom  when  she's  talking  to  you.  How 
often  did  she  mention  him  last  night  ?  It  was 
yotc  every  time.  You're  not  fit  to  speak  to  a 
decent  man,  you  reptile  !  " 

He  relaxed  the  clenched  hands. 

"  Can't    you  stop  this    infernal  see-saw  ? "  he 


174  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

asked,  pounding  at  his  pillow ;  "  light  and  fire 
every  day,  and  hell-black  ice  every  night.  Look 
at  it  straight,  you  coward  !  If  j^ou're  game  to 
face  the  music,  why,  face  it !  Marry  her,  and 
friendship  and  honesty  be  damned  !  Or  perhaps 
you  might  screw  yourself  up  to  another  noble  act 
—  not  a  shoddy  one  this  time." 

Still  sneering,  he  got  up  and  pottered  about  in 
slippers  and  pyjamas  till  he  had  stirred  together 
the  fire  and  made  himself  cocoa.  He  drank  it 
and  smoked  two  pipes.  This  is  very  unromantic, 
but  so  it  was.     He  slept  after  that. 

When  he  woke  in  the  morning  all  things 
looked  brighter.  He  almost  succeeded  in  pre- 
tending that  he  did  not  despise  himself. 

But  there  was  a  letter  from  Tom,  and  the 
guardian  angel  took  charge  of  the  curtain  again. 

He  was  tired,  brain  and  body.  The  prize 
seemed  hardly  worth  the  cost.  The  question  of 
relative  values,  at  any  rate,  seemed  debatable. 
The  day  passed  miserably. 

At  about  five  o'clock  he  was  startled  to  feel 
the  genuine  throb  of  an  honest  impulse.  Such 
an  impulse  in  him  at  that  hour  of  the  day,  when 
usually  the  devil  was  arranging  the  curtain  for 


DICK,    TOM,    AND    HARRY  175 

the  evening's  tragi-comedy,  was  so  unusual  as  to 
rouse  in  him  a  psychologic  interest  strong  enough 
to  come  near  to  destroying  its  object.  But  the 
flame  of  pleasure  lighted  by  the  impulse  fought 
successfully  against  the  cold  wind  of  cynical 
analysis,  and  he  stood  up. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  he,  "  the  copy-books 
are  right  —  '  Be  virtuous  and  you  will  be  happy.' 
At  least  if  you  aren't,  you  won't.  And  if  you 
are.  ...     One  could  but  try  !  " 

He  packed  a  bag.  He  went  out  and  sent  tele- 
grams to  his  people  at  King's  Lynn,  and  to  all 
the  folk  in  town  with  whom  he  ought  in  these 
next  weeks  to  have  danced  and  dined,  and  he 
wrote  a  telegram  to  her.  But  that  went  no 
further  than  the  floor  of  the  Fleet  Street 
Post  Oflice,  where  it  lay  in  trampled,  scattered 
rhomboids. 

Then  he  dined  in  Hall  —  he  could  not  spare 
from  his  great  renunciation  even  such  a  thread 
of  a  thought  as  should  have  decided  his  choice  of 
a  restaurant ;  and  he  went  back  to  the  gloomy 
little  rooms  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Tom. 

It  seemed,  until  his  scientific  curiosity  was 
aroused  by  the  seeming,  that  he  wrote  with  his 


176  THE  LITERARY    SENSE 

heart's   blood.     After    the   curiosity  awoke,  the 
heart's  blood  was  only  highly-coloured  water. 

"  Look  here.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I'm 
a  brute  and  I  know  it,  and  I  know  you'll  think 
so.  The  fact  is  I've  fallen  in  love  with  your 
Harry,  and  I  simply  can't  bear  it  seeing  her 
every  day  almost  and  knowing  she's  yours  and 
not  mine  "  (there  the  analytic  demon  pricked  up 
its  ears  and  the  scratching  of  the  pen  ceased). 
"  I  have  fought  against  this,"  the  letter  went  on 
after  a  long  pause.  "  You  don't  know  how  I've 
fought,  but  it's  stronger  than  I  am.  I  love  her 
— -impossibly,  unbearably — the  only  right  and 
honourable  thing  to  do  is  to  go  away,  and  I'm 
going.     My  only  hope  is  that  she'll  never  know. 

"  Your  old  friend." 

As  he  scrawled  the  signatory  hieroglyphic,  his 
only  hope  was  that  she  would  know  it,  and  that 
the  knowledge  would  leaven,  with  tenderly  pity- 
ing thoughts  of  him,  the  heroic  figure,  her  happi- 
ness with  Tom,  the  commonplace. 

He  addressed  and  stamped  the  envelope ;  but 
he  did  not  close  it. 

"  I    might  want   to    put  in  another  word    or 


DICK,    TOM,    AND   HARRY  177 

two,"  he  said  to  himself.  And  even  then  in  his 
inmost  heart  he  hardly  knew  that  he  was  going 
to  her.  He  knew  it  when  he  was  driving 
towards  Chenies  Street,  and  then  he  told  himself 
that  he  was  going  to  bid  her  good-bye  —  for  ever. 

Angel  and  devil  were  so  busy  shifting  the  cur- 
tain to  and  fro  that  he  could  not  see  any  scene 
clearly. 

He  came  into  her  presence  pale  with  his  reso- 
lution to  be  noble,  to  leave  her  for  ever  to  happi- 
ness—  and  Tom.  It  was  difficult  though,  even 
at  that  supreme  moment,  to  look  at  her  and  to 
couple  those  two  ideas. 

"  I've  come  to  say  good-bye,"  he  said. 

"  Good-hye  f  "  the  dismay  in  her  eyes  seemed  to 
make  that  unsealed  letter  leap  in  his  side  pocket. 

a  Yes  —  I'm  going  —  circumstances  I  can't  help 
—  I'm  going  away  for  a  long  time." 

"  Is  it  bad  news  ?  Oh  —  I  am  sorry.  When 
are  you  going  ?  '* 

"  To-morrow,"  he  said,  even  as  he  decided  to 
say,  "  to-night." 

<'  But  you  can  stay  a  little  now,  can't  you  ? 
Don't  go  like  this.     It's  dreadful.     I  shall  miss 

you    SO " 


178  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

He  fingered  the  letter. 

"  I  must  go  and  post  a  letter ;  then  I'll  come 
back,  if  I  may.  Where  did  I  put  that  hat  of 
mine  ?  " 

As  she  turned  to  pick  up  the  hat  from  the 
table,  he  dropped  the  letter  —  the  heart's  blood 
written  letter  —  on  the  floor  behind  him. 

"  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute  or  two,"  he  said, 
and  went  out  to  walk  up  and  down  the  far  end 
of  Chenies  Street  and  to  picture  her  —  alone 
with  his  letter. 

She  saw  it  at  the  instant  when  the  latch  of 
her  flat  clicked  behind  him.  She  picked  it  up, 
and  mechanically  turned  it  over  to  look  at  the 
address. 

He,  in  the  street  outside,  knew  just  how  she 
would  do  it.  Then  she  saw  that  the  letter  was 
unfastened. 

How  often  had  Tom  said  that  there  were  to 
be  no  secrets  between  them !  This  was  his  let- 
ter. But  it  might  hold  Dick's  secrets.  But  then, 
if  she  knew  Dick's  secrets  she  might  be  able  to 
help  him.  He  was  in  trouble  —  anyone  could 
see  that  —  awful  trouble.  She  turned  the  letter 
over  and  over  in  her  hands. 


DICK,    TOM,    AND    HARRY  179 

He,  without,  walking  with  half-closed  eyes, 
felt  that  she  was  so  turning  it. 

Suddenly  she  pulled  the  letter  out  and  read  it. 
He,  out  in  the  gas-lit  night,  knew  how  it  would 
strike  at  her  pity,  her  tenderness,  her  strong  love 
of  all  that  was  generous  and  noble.  He  pictured 
the  scene  that  must  be  when  he  should  re-enter 
her  room,  and  his  heart  beat  wildly.  He  held 
himself  in ;  he  was  playing  the  game  now  in 
deadly  earnest.  He  would  give  her  time  to 
think  of  him,  to  pity  him  —  time  even  to  won- 
der whether,  after  all,  duty  and  honour  had  not 
risen  up  in  their  might  to  forbid  him  to  dare  to 
try  his  faith  by  another  sight  of  her.  He  waited, 
keenly  aware  that  long  as  the  waiting  was  to  him, 
who  knew  what  the  ending  was  to  be,  it  must 
be  far,  far  longer  for  her,  who  did  not  know. 

At  last  he  went  back  to  her.  And  the  scene 
that  he  had  pictured  in  the  night  where  the  east 
wind  swept  the  street  was  acted  out  now,  ex- 
actly as  he  had  foreseen  it. 

She  held  in  her  hand  the  open  letter.  She 
came  towards  him,  still  holding  it. 

"  I've  read  your  letter,"  she  said. 

In  her  heart  she  was  saying,  "  I  must  be  brave. 


180  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

Never  mind  modesty  and  propriety.  Tom  could 
never  love  me  like  this.  He^s  a  hero  —  my 
hero." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  her  confession  he 
seemed  to  hear  almost  the  very  words  of  her 
thought. 

He  hung  his  head  and  stood  before  her  in  the 
deep  humility  of  a  chidden  child. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "  I  am  ashamed.  For- 
give me.  I  couldn't  help  it.  No  one  could. 
Good-bye.     Try  to   forgive  me  —  " 

He  turned  to  go,  but  she  caught  him  by  the 
arms.     He  had  been  almost  sure  she  would. 

"  You  mustn't  go,"  she  said.  "  Oh  —  I  mn  sorry 
for  Tom  —  but  it's  not  the  same  for  him.  There 
are  lots  of  people  he'd  like  just  as  well  —  but 
you  —  " 

"  Hush  !  "  he  said  gently,  "  don't  think  of  me. 
I  shall  be  all  right.     I  shall  get  over  it." 

His  sad,  set  smile  assured  her  that  he  never 
would  —  never,  in  this  world  or  the  next. 

Her  eyes  were  shining  with  the  stress  of  the 
scene  :  his  with  the  charm  of  it. 

"  You  are  so  strong,  so  brave,  so  good,"  she 
made  herself  say.     "  I  can't  let  you  go.     Oh  — 


DICK,    TOM,    AND    HARRY  181 

don't  you  see  —  I  can't  let  you  suffer.  You've 
suffered  so  much  already  —  you've  been  so  noble. 
Oh  —  it's  better  to  know  now.  If  I'd  found  out 
later  —  " 

She  hung  her  head  and  waited. 

But  he  would  not  spare  her.  Since  he  had 
sold  his  soul  he  would  have  the  price :  the  full 
price,  to  the  last  blush,  the  last  tear,  the  last 
tremble  in  the  pretty  voice. 

"  Let  me  go,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook  with 
real  passion,  "  let  me  go  —  I  can't  bear  it."  He 
took  her  hands  gently  from  his  arms  and  held 
them  lightly. 

Next  moment  they  were  round  his  neck,  and 
she  was  clinging  wildly  to  him. 

"  Don't  be  unhappy  !  I  can't  bear  it.  Don't 
you  see  ?     Ah  —  don't  you  see  ?  " 

Then  he  allowed  himself  to  let  her  know  that 
he  did  see.  When  he  left  her  an  hour  later  she 
stood  in  the  middle  of  her  room  and  drew  a 
long  breath. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried.  "  What  have  I  done  ? 
What  h(we   I   done  ? " 

He  walked  away  with  the  maiden  fire  of  her 
kisses    thrilling    his    lips.       "  I've     won  —  I've 


182  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

won  —  I've  won ! "  His  heart  sang  within 
him. 

But  when  he  woke  in  the  night  —  these 
months  had  taught  him  the  habit  of  waking 
in  the  night  and  facing  his  soul  —  he  said  — 

"  It  was  very  easy,  after  all  —  very,  very  easy. 
And  was  it  worth  while  ?  " 

But  the  next  evening,  when  they  met,  neither 
tasted  in  the  other's  kisses  the  bitterness  of  last 
night's  regrets.  And  in  three  days  Tom  was  to 
come  home.  He  came.  All  the  long  way  in  the 
rattling,  shaking  train  a  song  of  delight  sang 
itself  over  and  over  in  his  brain.  He,  too,  had 
his  visions :  he  was  not  too  commonplace  for 
those.  He  saw  her,  her  bright  beauty  trans- 
figured by  the  joy  of  reunion,  rushing  to  meet 
him  with  eager  hands  and  gladly  given  lips.  He 
thought  of  all  he  had  to  tell  her.  The  fifty 
pounds  saved  already.  The  Editor's  probable 
resignation,  his  own  almost  certain  promotion, 
the  incredibly  dear  possibility  of  their  marriage 
before  another  year  had  passed.  It  seemed  a 
month  before  he  pressed  the  electric  button  at 
her  door,  and  pressed  it  with  a  hand  that  trem- 
bled for  joy. 


DICK,   TOM,    AND   HARRY  183 

The  door  opened  and  she  met  him,  but  this 
was  not  the  radiant  figure  of  his  vision.  It 
seemed  to  be  not  she,  but  an  image  of  her  — 
an  image  without  life,  without  colour. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said ;  "  I've  something  to  tell 
you." 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  bluntly.  "What's 
happened,  Harry  ?     What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I've  found  out,"  she  said  slowly,  but  with- 
out hesitation :  had  she  not  rehearsed  the  speech 
a  thousand  times  in  these  three  days  ?  "  I've 
found  out  that  it  was  a  mistake,  Tom.  I  —  I 
love  somebody  else.  Don't  ask  who  it  is.  I 
love  him.     Ah  —  donHf'' 

For  his  face  had  turned  a  leaden  white,  and 
he  was  groping  blindly  for  something  to  hold 
on  to. 

He  sat  down  heavily  on  the  chair  where  Dick 
had  knelt  at  her  feet  the  night  before.  But 
now  it  was  she  who  was  kneeling. 

"  Oh,  donH^  Tom,  dear  —  don't.  I  can't  bear 
it.  I'm  not  worth  it.  He's  so  brave  and  noble 
—  and  he  loves  me  so." 

"And  don't  /love  you?  "  said  poor  Tom,  and 
then  without  ado  or  disguise  he  burst  into  tears. 


184  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

She  had  ceased  to  think  or  to  reason.  Her 
head  was  on  his  shoulder,  and  they  clung  blindly 
to  each  other  and  cried  like  two  children. 

When  Tom  went  to  the  Temple  that  night 
he  carried  a  note  from  Harry  to  Dick.  With 
sublime  audacity  and  a  confidence  deserved  she 
made  Tom  her  messenger. 

"  It's  a  little  secret,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him, 
"and  you're  not  to  know." 

Tom  thouglit  it  must  be  something  about  a 
Christmas  present  for  himself.  He  laughed  — 
a  little  shakily  —  and  took  the  note. 

Dick  read  it  and  crushed  it  in  his  hand  while 
Tom  poured  out  his  full  heart. 

"There's  been  some  nonsense  while  I  was 
away,"  he  said ;  "  she  must  have  been  dull  and 
unhinged  —  you  left  her  too  much  alone,  old 
man.  But  it's  all  right  now.  She  couldn't 
care  for  anyone  but  me,  after  all,  and  she  knew 
it  directly  she  saw  me  again.  And  we're  to  be 
married  before  next  year's  out,  if  luck  holds." 

"  Here's  luck,  old  man ! "  said  Dick,  lifting 
his  whisky.  When  Tom  had  gone  to  bed, 
weary    with    the    quick    sequence    of    joy    and 


DICK,    TOM,    AND    HARRY  185 

misery  and  returning  joy,  Dick  read  the  letter 
again. 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  said  the  letter,  "  it's  not  in 
me.  He  loves  me  too  much.  And  I  am  fond 
of  him.  He  couldn't  bear  it.  He's  weak,  you 
see.  He's  not  like  you  —  brave  and  strong  and 
noble.  But  I  shall  always  be  better  because 
you've  loved  me.  I'm  going  to  try  to  be  brave 
and  noble  and  strong  like  you.  And  you  must 
help  me.  Dear.     God  bless  you.     Good-bye." 

"After  all,"  said  Dick,  as  he  watched  the 
white  letter  turn  in  the  fire  to  black,  gold 
spangled,  "after  all,  it  was  not  so  easy.  And 
oh,  how  it  would  have  been  worth  while ! " 


MISS    EDEN'S    BABY 

MISS  EDEN'S  life-history  was  a  sad  one. 
She  told  it  to  her  employer  before  she  had 
been  a  week  at  the  Beeches.  Mrs.  Despard  came 
into  the  school-room  and  surprised  the  governess 
in  tears.     No  one  could  ever  resist  Mrs.  Despard 

—  I  suppose  she  has  had  more  confidences  than 
any  woman  in  Sussex.  Anyhow,  Miss  Eden 
dried  her  tears  and  faltered  out  her  poor  little 
story. 

She  had  been  engaged  to  be  married  —  Mrs. 
Despard's  was  a  face  trained  to  serve  and  not  to 
betray  its  owner,  so  she  did  not  look  astonished, 
though  Miss  Eden  was  so  very  homely,  poor 
thing,  that  the  idea  of  a  lover  seemed  almost 
ludicrous  —  she  had  been  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried :  and  her  lover  had  been  killed  at  Elend- 
slaagte,  and  her  father  had  died  of  heart  disease 

—  an  attack  brought  on  by  the  shock  of  the 
news,  and  his  partner  had  gone  off  with  all  his 

187 


188  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

money,  and  now  she  had  to  go  out  as  a  govern- 
ess :  her  mother  and  sister  were  living  quietly 
on  the  mother's  little  fortune.  There  was 
enough  for  two  but  not  enough  for  three.  So 
Miss  Eden  had  gone  governessing. 

"  But  you  needn't  pity  me  for  that,"  she  said, 
when  Mrs.  Despard  said  something  kind,  "  be- 
cause, really,  it's  better  for  me.  If  I  were  at 
home  doing  nothing  I  should  just  sit  and  think 
of  Jiinrb  —  for  hours  and  hours  at  a  time.  He 
was  so  brave  and  strong  and  good  —  he  died 
cheering  his  men  on  and  waving  his  sword, 
and  he  did  love  me  so.  We  were  to  have  been 
married  in  August." 

She  was  weeping  again,  more  violently  than 
before;  Mrs.  Despard  comforted  her  —  there  is 
no  one  who  comforts  so  well  —  and  the  govern- 
ess poured  out  her  heart.  When  the  dressing- 
bell  rang  Miss  Eden  pulled  herself  together  with 
a  manifest  effort. 

"  I've  been  awfully  weak  and  foolish,"  she  said, 
"and  you've  been  most  kind.  Please  forgive 
me  —  and  —  and  I  think  I'd  rather  not  speak  of 
it  any  more  —  ever.  It's  been  a  relief,  just  this 
once  —  but  I'm  going  to  be  brave.     Thank  you, 


MISS   EDENS   BABY  189 

thank  you  for  all  your  goodness  to  me.     I  shall 
neA^er  forget  it." 

And  now  Miss  Eden  went  about  her  duties 
with  a  courageous  smile,  and  Mrs.  Despard  could 
not  but  see  and  pity  the  sad  heart  beneath  the 
bravely  assumed  armour.  Miss  Eden  was  fairly 
well  educated,  and  she  certainly  was  an  excellent 
teacher.  The  children  made  good  progress.  She 
worshipped  Mrs.  Despard  —  but  then  every  one 
did  that  —  and  she  made  herself  pleasures  of  the 
little  things  she  was  able  to  do  for  her  —  mend- 
ing linen,  arranging  flowers,  running  errands,  and 
nursing  the  Baby.  She  adored  the  Baby.  She 
used  to  walk  by  herself  in  the  Sussex  lanes,  for 
Mrs.  Despard  often  set  her  free  for  two  or  three 
hours  at  a  time,  and  more  than  once  the  mother 
and  children,  turning  some  leafy  corner  in  their 
blackberrying  or  nutting  expeditions,  came  upon 
Miss  Eden  walking  along  with  a  far-away  look 
in  her  eyes,  and  a  face  set  in  a  mask  of  stead- 
fast endurance.  She  would  sit  sewing  on  the 
lawn  with  Mabel  and  Gracie  playing  about 
her,  answering  their  ceaseless  chatter  with  a 
patient  smile.  To  Mrs.  Despard  she  was  a 
pathetic  figure.      Mr.  Despard  loathed  her,  but 


190  THE   LITERARY    SENSE 

then  he  never  liked  women  unless  they  were 
pretty. 

"  I  ought  to  be  used  to  your  queer  pets  by 
now,"  he  said  ;  "  but  really  this  one  is  almost 
too  much.  Upon  my  soul,  she's  the  ugliest 
woman  I've  ever  seen." 

She  certainljr  was  not  handsome.  Her  eyes 
were  fairly  good,  but  mouth  and  nose  were 
clumsy,  and  hers  was  one  of  those  faces  that 
seem  to  have  no  definite  outline.  Her  com- 
plexion was  dull  and  unequal.  Her  hair  was 
straight  and  coarse,  and  somehow  it  always 
looked  dusty.  Her  figure  was  her  only  good 
point,  and,  as  Mr.  Despard  observed,  "  If  a  figure 
without  a  face  is  any  good,  why  not  have  a 
dressmaker's  dummy,  and  have  done  with  it  ? " 

Mr.  Despard  was  very  glad  when  he  heard 
that  a  little  legacy  had  come  from  an  uncle,  and 
that  Miss  Eden  was  going  to  give  up  governess- 
ing  and  live  with  her  people. 

Miss  Eden  left  in  floods  of  tears,  and  she 
clung  almost  frantically  to  Mrs.  Despard. 

"  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
may  write  to  you,  mayn't  I  ?  and  come  and  see 
you  sometimes  ?    You  will  let  me,  won't  you  ?  " 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  191 

Tears  choked  her,  and  she  was  driven  off  in 
the  station  fly.  And  a  new  governess,  young, 
commonplacely  pretty,  and  entirely  heart-whole, 
came  to  take  her  place,  to  the  open  relief  of  Mr. 
Despard,  and  the  little  less  pronounced  satisfac- 
tion of  the  little  girls. 

"  She'll  write  to  you  by  every  post  now,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Mr.  Despard  when  the  conventional 
letter  of  thanks  for  kindness  came  to  his  wife. 
But  Miss  Eden  did  not  write  again  till  Christ- 
mas. Then  she  wrote  to  ask  Mrs.  Despard 's 
advice.  There  was  a  gentleman,  a  retired  tea- 
broker,  in  a  very  good  position.  She  liked  him 
—  did  Mrs.  Despard  think  it  would  be  fair  to 
marry  him  when  her  heart  was  buried  for  ever 
in  that  grave  at  Elendslaagte  ? 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  be  selfish,  and  poor  Mr. 
Cave  is  so  devoted.  My  dear  mother  thinks  he 
would  never  be  the  same  again  if  I  refused  him." 

Mr.  Despard  read  the  letter,  and  told  his  wife 
to  tell  the  girl  to  take  the  tea-broker,  for  good- 
ness' sake,  and  be  thankful.  She'd  never  get 
such  another  chance.  His  wife  told  him  not  to 
be  coarse,  and  wrote  a  gentle,  motherly  letter 
to  Miss  Eden. 


192  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

On  New  Year's  Day  came  a  beautiful  and 
very  expensive  handkerchief-sachet  for  Mrs.  Des- 
pard,  and  the  nev^s  that  Miss  Eden  v^as  engaged. 
"  And  already,"  she  wrote,  "  I  feel  that  I  can 
really  become  attached  to  Edward.  He  is  good- 
ness itself.  Of  course,  it  is  not  like  the  other. 
That  only  comes  once  in  a  woman's  life,  but 
I  believe  I  shall  really  be  happy  in  a  quiet, 
humdrum  way." 

After  that,  news  of  Miss  Eden  came  thick  and 
fast.  Edward  was  building  a  house  for  her. 
Edward  had  bought  her  a  pony-carriage.  Ed- 
ward had  to  call  his  house  No.  70,  Queen's  Road 
—  a  new  Town  Council  resolution  —  and  it 
wasn't  in  a  street  at  all,  but  quite  in  the  country, 
only  there  was  going  to  be  a  road  there  some 
day.  And  she  had  so  wanted  to  call  it  the 
Beeches,  after  dear  Mrs.  Despard's  house,  where 
she  had  been  so  happy.  The  w^edding-day  was 
fixed,  and  w^ould  Mrs.  Despard  come  to  the 
wedding  ?  Miss  Eden  knew  it  was  a  good  deal 
to  ask ;  but  if  she  only  would ! 

"  It  would  add  more  than  you  can  possibly 
guess  to  my  happiness,"  she  said,  "  if  you  could 
come.     There  is  plenty  of  room  in  my  mother's 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  193 

little  house.  It  is  small,  but  very  convenient, 
and  it  has  such  a  lovely  old  garden,  so  unusual, 
you  know,  in  the  middle  of  a  town ;  and  if  only 
dear  Mabel  and  Gracie  might  be  among  my 
little  bridesmaids !  The  dresses  are  to  be  half- 
transparent  white  silk  over  rose  colour.  Dear 
Edward's  father  insists  on  ordering  them  him- 
self from  Liberty's.  The  other  bridesmaids  will 
be  Edward's  little  nieces  —  such  sweet  children. 
Mother  is  giving  me  the  loveliest  trousseau.  Of 
course,  I  shall  make  it  up  to  her  ;  but  she  will 
do  it,  and  I  give  way,  just  to  please  her.  It's 
not  pretentious,  you  know,  but  everything  so 
good.  Real  lace  on  all  the  under  things,  and 
twelve  of  everything,  and  —  " 

The  letter  wandered  on  into  a  maze  of  lingerie 
and  millinery  and  silk  petticoats. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Despard  were  still  debating  the 
question  of  the  bridesmaids  whose  dresses  were 
to  come  from  Liberty's  when  a  telegraph  boy 
crossed  the  lawn. 

Mrs.  Despard  tore  open  the  envelope. 

"  Oh  —  how  frightfully  sad  !  "  she  said.  "  I 
am  sorry !  '  Edward's  father  dangerously  ill. 
Wedding  postponed.' " 


194  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

The  next  letter  was  black-edged,  and  was  not 
signed  "Eden."  Edward's  father  had  msisted 
on  the  marriage  taking  place  before  he  died  — 
it  had,  in  fact,  been  performed  by  his  bedside. 
It  had  been  a  sad  time,  but  Mrs.  Edward  was 
very  happy  now. 

"  My  husband  is  so  good  to  me,  his  thoughtful 

kindness    is    beyond   belief,"    she    wrote.      "  He 

anticipates  my  every  wish.     I  should  be  indeed 

ungrateful  if  I  did  not  love  him   dearly.     Dear 

Mrs.  Despard,  this  gentle  domestic  love  is  very 

beautiful.     I  hope  I  am  not  treacherous  to  my 

dead  in  being  as  happy  as  I  am  with  Edward. 

Ah !    I  hear  the  gate   click  —  I    must    run    and 

meet  him.     He  says  it  is  not  like  coming  home 

unless  my  face  is  the  first  he  sees  when  he  comes 

in.     Good-bye.     A  thousand  thanks  for  ever  for 

all  your  goodness. 

"  Your  grateful  Ella  Cave." 

"  Either  their  carriage  drive  is  unusually  long, 
or  her  face  was  not  the  first,"  said  Mr.  Despard. 
"  Why  didn't  she  go  and  meet  the  man,  and  not 
stop  to  write  all  that  rot  ?  " 

"  Don't,  Bill,"  said  his  wife.  "You  were  always 
so  unjust  to  that  girl." 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  195 

«  Girl !  "  said  Mi\  Despard. 

And  now  the  letters  were  full  of  detail :  the 
late  Miss  Eden  wrote  a  good  hand,  and  expressed 
herself  with  clearness.  Her  letters  were  a  pleas- 
ure to  Mrs.  Despard. 

"  Poor  dear  !  "  she  said.  "  It  really  rejoices  my 
heart  to  think  of  her  being  so  happy.  She  de- 
scribes things  very  well.  I  almost  feel  as  though 
I  knew  every  room  in  her  house ;  it  must  be  very 
pretty  with  all  those  Liberty  muslin  blinds,  and 
the  Persian  rugs,  and  the  chair-backs  Edward's 
grandmother  worked  —  and  then  the  beautiful 
garden.  I  think  I  must  go  to  see  it  all.  I  do 
love  to  see  people  happy." 

"  You  generally  do  see  them  happy,"  said  her 
husband ;  "  it's  a  way  people  have  when  they're 
near  you.     Go  and  see  her,  by  all  means." 

And  Mrs.  Despard  would  have  gone,  but  a 
letter,  bearing  the  same  date  as  her  own,  crossed 
it  in  the  post ;  it  must  have  been  delayed,  for  it 
reached  her  on  the  day  when  she  expected  an 
answer  to  her  own  letter,  offering  a  visit.  But 
the  late  Miss  Eden  had  evidently  not  received 
this,  for  her  letter  was  a  mere  wail  of  an- 
guish. 


196  ^HE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Edward  is  ill  —  typhoid.  I  am  distracted. 
Write  to  me  when  you  can.  The  very  thought 
of  you  comforts  me." 

"  Poor  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Despard,  "  I  really 
did  think  she  was  going  to  be  happy." 

Her  sympathetic  interest  followed  Edward 
through  all  the  stages  of  illness  and  conva- 
lescence, as  chronicled  by  his  wife's  unwearying 
pen. 

Then  came  the  news  of  the  need  of  a  minia- 
ture trousseau,  and  the  letters  breathed  of 
head-flannels,  robes,  and  the  charm  of  tiny  em- 
broidered caps.  "  They  were  Edward's  when 
he  was  a  baby  —  the  daintiest  embroidery  and 
thread  lace.  The  christening  cap  is  Honiton. 
They  are  a  little  yellow  with  time,  of  course, 
but  I  am  bleaching  them  on  the  sweet-brier 
hedge.  I  can  see  the  white  patches  on  the 
green  as  I  write.  They  look  like  some  strange 
sort  of  flowers,  and  they  make  me  dream  of 
the  beautiful  future." 

In  due  season  Baby  was  born  and  christened ; 
and  then  Miss  Eden,  that  was,  wrote  to  ask  if 
she  might  come  to  the  Beeches,  and  bring  the 
darling  little  one. 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  197 

Mrs.  Despard  was  delighted.  She  loved 
babies.  It  was  a  beautiful  baby  —  beautifully 
dressed,  and  it  rested  contentedly  in  the  arms 
of  a  beautifully  dressed  lady,  whose  happy  face 
Mrs.  Despard  could  hardly  reconcile  with  her 
recollections  of  Miss  Eden.  The  young  mother's 
happiness  radiated  from  her,  and  glorified  her 
lips  and  eyes.  Even  Mr.  Despard  owned,  when 
the  pair  had  gone,  that  marriage  and  mother- 
hood had  incredibly  improved  Miss  Eden. 

And  now,  the  sudden  departure  of  a  brother 
for  the  other  side  of  the  world  took  Mrs. 
Despard  to  Southampton,  whence  his  boat 
sailed,  and  where  lived  the  happy  wife  and 
mother,  who  had  been  Miss  Eden. 

When  the  tears  of  parting  were  shed,  and  the 
last  waving  handkerchief  from  the  steamer's 
deck  had  dwindled  to  a  sharp  point  of  light, 
and  from  a  sharp  point  of  light  to  an  invisible 
point  of  parting  and  sorrow,  Mrs.  Despard 
dried  her  pretty  eyes,  and  thought  of  trains. 
There  was  no  convenient  one  for  an  hour  or 
two. 

"  I'll  go  and  see  Ella  Cave,"  said  she,  and 
went  in    a   hired    carriage.       "No.   70,   Queen's 


198  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

Road,"  she  said.  "  I  think  it's  somewhere  out- 
side the  town." 

"  Not  it,"  said  the  driver,  and  presently  set 
her  down  in  a  horrid  little  street,  at  a  horrid 
little  shop,  where  they  sold  tobacco  and  sweets 
and  newspapers  and  walking-sticks. 

"  This  can't  be  it  !  There  must  be  some 
other  Queen's  Road?"  said  Mrs.  Despard. 

"No  there  ain't,"  said  the  man.  "What 
name  did  yer  want  ? " 

"  Cave,"  said  Mrs.  Despard  absently  ;  "  Mrs. 
Edward  Cave." 

The  man  went  into  the  shop.  Presently  he 
returned. 

"  She  don't  live  here,"  he  said ;  "  she  only 
calls  here  for  letters." 

Mrs.  Despard  assured  herself  of  this  in  a 
brief  interview  with  a  frowsy  woman  across  a 
glass-topped  show-box  of  silk-embroidered  cigar- 
cases. 

"  The  young  person  calls  every  day,  mum," 
she  said ;  "  quite  a  respectable  young  person, 
mum,  I  should  say  —  if  she  was  after  your 
situation." 

"  Thank    you,"    said    Mrs.    Despard    mechani- 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  199 

cally,  yet  with  her  own  smile  —  the  smile  that 
still  stamps  her  in  the  frowsy  woman's  memory 
as  "  that  pleasant-spoken  lady." 

She  paused  a  moment  on  the  dirty  pavement, 
and  then  gave  the  cabman  the  address  of  the 
mother  and  sister,  the  address  of  the  little 
house  —  small,  but  very  convenient  —  and  with 
a  garden  —  such  a  lovely  old  garden  —  and  so 
unusual  in  the  middle  of  a  town. 

The  cab  stopped  at  a  large,  sparkling,  plate- 
glassy  shop  —  a  very  high-class  fruiterer's  and 
greengrocer's. 

The  name  on  the  elaborately  gilded  facia 
was,  beyond  any  doubt,  Eden  —  Frederick 
Eden. 

Mrs.  Despard  got  out  and  walked  into  the 
shop.  To  this  hour  the  scent  of  Tangerine 
oranges  brings  to  her  a  strange,  sick,  helpless 
feeling  of  disillusionment. 

A  stout  well-oiled  woman,  in  a  very  tight 
puce  velveteen  bodice  with  bright  buttons  and 
a  large  yellow  lace  collar,  fastened  with  a  blue 
enamel  brooch,  leaned   forward   interrogatively. 

"  Mrs.  Cave  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Despard. 

"  Don't  know  the  name,  madam." 


200  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Wasn't  that  the  name  of  the  gentleman 
Miss  Eden  married  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  you're  making  a  mistake, 
madam.  Excuse  me,  but  might  I  ask  your 
name  ?  " 

"  I'm  Mrs.  Despard.  Miss  Eden  lived  with 
me  as  governess." 

"Oh,  yes"  —  the  puce  velvet  seemed  to  soften 
— "  very  pleased  to  see  you,  I'm  sure !  Come 
inside,  madam.  Ellen's  just  run  round  to  the 
fishmonger's.  I'm  not  enjoying  very  good 
health  just  now  "  —  the  glance  was  intolerably 
confidential  —  "and  I  thought  I  could  fancy  a 
bit  of  filleted  plaice  for  my  supper,  or  a  nice 
whiting.     Come  inside,  do  ! " 

Mrs.  Despard,  stunned,  could  think  of  no 
course  save  that  suggested.  She  followed  Mrs. 
Eden  into  the  impossible  parlour  that  bounded 
the  shop  on  the  north. 

"  Do  sit  down,"  said  Mrs.  Eden  hospitably, 
«  and  the  girl  shall  get  you  a  cup  of  tea.  It's 
full  early,  but  a  cup  of  tea's  always  welcome, 
early  or  late,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Despard,  automatically. 
Then  she  roused  herself  and  added,  "  But  please 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  201 

don't  trouble,  I  can't  stay  more  than  a  few 
minutes.     I  hope  Miss  Eden  is  well  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  she's  all  right.  She  lives  in 
clover,  as  you  might  say,  since  her  uncle  on  the 
mother's  side  left  her  that  hundred  a  year. 
Made  it  all  in  fried  fish,  too.  I  should  have 
thought  it  a  risk  myself,  but  you  never 
know." 

Mrs.  Despard  was  struggling  with  a  sensation 
as  of  sawdust  in  the  throat  —  saw^dust,  and  a 
great  deal  of  it,  and  very  dry. 

"But  I  heard  that  Miss  Eden  was  mar- 
ried —  " 

"  Not  she ! "  said  Mrs.  Eden,  with  the  natural 
contempt  of  one  who  was. 

"  I  understood  that  she  had  married  a  Mr. 
Cave." 

"It's  some  other  Eden,  then.  There  isn't  a 
Cave  in  the  town,  so  far  as  I  know,  except  Mr. 
Augustus ;  he's  a  solicitor  and  Commissioner  for 
Oaths,  a  very  good  business,  and  of  course  he'd 
never  look  the  same  side  of  the  road  as  she  was, 
nor  she  couldn't  expect  it." 

"  But  really,"  Mrs.  Despard  persisted,  "  I  do 
think    there    must   be    some  mistake.      Because 


202  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

she  came  to  see  me  —  and  —  and  she  brought  her 
baby." 

Mrs.  Eden  laughed  outright. 

"  Her  baby  ?  Oh,  really  !  But  she's  never  so 
much  as  had  a  young  man  after  her,  let  alone  a 
husband.  It's  not  what  she  could  look  for, 
either,  for  she's  no  beauty  —  poor  girl !  " 

Yet  the  Baby  was  evidence  —  of  a  sort.  Mrs^ 
Despard  hated  herself  for  hinting  that  perhaps 
Mrs.  Eden  did  not  know  everything. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  madam." 
The  puce  bodice  was  visibly  moved.  "  That  was 
my  baby,  bless  his  little  heart.  Poor  Ellen's  a 
respectable  girl  —  she's  been  with  me  since  she 
was  a  little  trot  of  six  —  all  except  the  eleven 
months  she  was  away  with  you  —  and  then  my 
Fred  see  her  to  the  door,  and  fetched  her  from 
your  station.  She  would  go — though  not  our 
wish.  I  suppose  she  wanted  a  change.  But  since 
then  she's  never  been  over  an  hour  away,  except 
when  she  took  my  Gustavus  over  to  see  you. 
She  must  have  told  you  whose  he  was  —  but  I 
suppose  you  weren't  paying  attention.  And  I 
must  say  I  don't  think  it's  becoming  in  you,  if 
you'll  excuse  me  saying  so,  to  come  here  taking 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  203 

away  a  young  girl's  character.  At  least,  if  she's 
not  so  young  as  she  was,  of  course  —  we  none 
of  us  are,  not  even  yourself,  madam,  if  you'll 
pardon  me  saying  so." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Despard.  She 
had  never  felt  so  helpless  —  so  silly.  The 
absurd  parlour,  ponderous  with  plush,  dusky 
with  double  curtains,  had  for  her  all  the  effect  of 
a  nightmare. 

She  felt  that  she  was  swimming  blindly  in  a 
sea  of  disenchantment. 

"  Don't  think  me  inquisitive,"  she  said,  "  but 
Miss  Eden  w^as  engaged,  wasn't  she,  some  time 
ago,  to  someone  who  w^as  killed  in  South 
Africa  ?  " 

"Never  —  in  all  her  born  days,"  said  Mrs. 
Eden,  with  emphasis.  "  I  suppose  it's  her  looks. 
I've  had  a  good  many  offers  myself,  though  I'm 
not  what  you  might  call  anything  out  of  the 
way  —  but  poor  Ellen —  never  had  so  much  as  a 
nibble." 

Mrs.  Despard  gasped.  She  clung  against 
reason  to  the  one  spar  of  hope  in  this  sea  of 
faiths  dissolved.  It  might  be  —  it  must  be  — 
some  mistake! 


204  THE   LITERARY  SENSE 

"  You  see,  poor  Ellen  "  —  Mrs.  Eden  made  as 
much  haste  to  smash  up  the  spar  as  though  she 
had  seen  it  —  "  poor  Ellen,  when  her  mother  and 
father  died  she  was  but  six.  There  was  only 
her  and  my  Fred,  so  naturally  we  took  her,  and 
what  little  money  the  old  lady  left  we  spent  on 
her,  sending  her  to  a  good  school,  and  never 
counting  the  bit  of  clothes  and  victuals.  She 
was  always  for  learning  something,  and  above 
her  station,  and  the  Rev.  Mrs.  Peterson  at  St. 
Michael,  and  All  Angels  —  she  made  a  sort  of 
pet  of  Ellen,  and  set  her  up,  more  than  a  bit." 

Mrs.  Despard  remembered  that  Mrs.  Peterson 
had  been  Miss  Eden's  reference. 

"  And  then  she  would  come  to  you  —  though 
welcome  to  share  along  with  us,  and  you  can  see 
for  yourself  it's  a  good  business  —  and  when  that 
little  bit  was  left  her,  of  course,  she'd  no  need  to 
work,  so  she  came  home  here,  and  I  must  say 
she's  always  been  as  handy  a  girl  and  obliging  as 
you  could  wish,  but  wandering,  too,  in  her 
thoughts.  Always  pens  and  ink.  I  shouldn^t 
wonder  but  what  she  wrote  poetry.  Yards  and 
yards  of  writing  she  does.  I  don't  know  what 
she  does  with  it  all." 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  205 

But  Mrs.  Despard  knew. 

Mrs.  Eden  talked  on  gaily  and  gladly  —  till 
not  even  a  straw  was  left  for  her  hearer  to  cling 
to. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said.  "  I  see 
it  was  all  a  mistake.  I  must  have  been  wrong 
about  the  address."  She  spoke  hurriedly  —  for 
she  had  heard  in  the  shop  a  step  that  she  knew. 

For  one  moment  a  white  face  peered  in  at  the 
glass  door  —  then  vanished  ;  it  was  Miss  Eden's 
face  —  her  face  as  it  had  been  when  she  told  of 
her  lost  lover  who  died  waving  his  sword  at 
Elendslaagte  !  But  the  telling  of  that  tale  had 
moved  Mrs.  Despard  to  no  such  passion  of  pity 
as  this.  For  from  that  face  now  something  was 
blotted  out,  and  the  lack  of  it  was  piteous 
beyond  thought. 

"Thank  you  very  much.  I  am  so  sorry  to 
have  troubled  you,"  she  said,  and  som^ow  got 
out  of  the  plush  parlour,  and  through  the  shop, 
fruit-filled,  orange-scented. 

At  the  station  there  was  still  time,  and  too 
much  time.  The  bookstall  yielded  pencil,  paper, 
envelope,  and  stamp.     She  wrote  — 

"Ella,  dear,  whatever  happens,  I  am  always 


206  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

your  friend.  Let  me  know  —  can  I  do  anything 
for  you?  I  know  all  about  everything  now. 
But  don't  think  I'm  angry  —  I  am  only  so  sorry 
for  you,  dear  —  so  very,  very  sorry.  Do  let  me 
help  you." 

She  addressed  the  letter  to  Miss  Eden  at  the 
greengrocer's.  Afterwards  she  thought  that  she 
had  better  have  left  it  alone.  It  could  do  no 
good,  and  it  might  mean  trouble  with  her  sister- 
in-law,  for  Miss  Eden,  late  Mrs.  Cave,  the  happy 
wife  and  mother.  She  need  not  have  troubled 
herself  —  for  the  letter  came  back  a  week  later 
with  a  note  from  Mrs.  Eden  of  the  bursting, 
bright-buttoned,  velvet  bodice.  Ellen  had  gone 
away  —  no  one  knew  where  she  had  gone. 

Mrs.  Despard  will  always  reproach  herself 
for  not  having  rushed  towards  the  white  face 
that  peered  through  the  glass  door.  She  could 
have  done  something  —  anything.  So  she  thinks, 
but  I  am  not  sure. 

*  -tP  ^  *  ^  ^ 

"And  it  was  none  of  it  true.  Bill,"  she  said 
piteously,  when,  Mabel  and  Gracie  safely  tucked 
up  in  bed,  she  told  him  all  about  it.  "  I  don't 
know  how  she  could.     No  dead  lover  —  no  re- 


MISS   EDEN'S   BABY  207 

tired  tea-broker  —  no  pretty  house,  and  sweet- 
brier  hedge  with  .  .  .  and  no  Baby." 

"  She  was  a  lying  lunatic,"  said  Bill.  "  I  never 
liked  her.  Hark  !  what's  that  ?  All  right,  Love- 
a-duck  —  daddy's  here  !  " 

He  went  up  the  stairs  three  at  a  time  to  catch 
up  his  baby,  who  had  a  way  of  wandering,  with 
half-awake  wailings,  out  of  her  crib  in  the  small 
hours. 

"  All  right.  Kiddie-winks,  daddy's  got  you,"  he 
murmured,  coming  back  into  the  drawing-room 
with  the  little  soft,  warm,  flannelly  bundle  cud- 
dled close  to  him. 

"  She's  asleep  again  already,"  he  said,  settling 
her  comfortably  in  his  arms.  "  Don't  w^orry  any 
more  about  that  Eden  girl,  Molly  —  she's  not 
worth  it." 

His  wife  knelt  beside  him  and  buried  her  face 
against  his  waistcoat  and  against  the  little  flannel 
night-gown. 

"Oh,  Bill,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  thick 
with  tears,  "  don't  say  things  like  that.  Don't 
you  see  ?  It  w^as  cruel,  cruel !  She  was  all 
alone  —  no  mother,  no  sister,  no  lover.  She  was 
made  so  that  no  one  could  ever  love  her.     And 


208  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

she  wanted  love  so  much  —  so  frightfully  much, 
so  that  she  just  had  to  pretend  that  she  had  it." 

"  And  what  about  the  Baby  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Despard,  taking  one  arm  from  his  own  baby 
to  pass  it  round  his  wife's  shoulders.  "  Don't 
be  a  darling  idiot,  Molly.  What  about  the 
Baby  ? " 

"  Oh  —  don't  you  see  ?  "  Mrs.  Despard  was 
sobbing  now  in  good  earnest.  "  She  wanted  the 
Baby  more  than  anything  else.  Oh  —  don't  say 
horrid  things  about  her,  Bill !  We've  got  every- 
thing —  and  she'd  got  nothing  at  all  —  don't  say 
things  —  don't !  " 

Mr.  Despard  said  nothing.  He  thumped  his 
wife  sympathetically  on  the  back.  It  was  the 
baby  who  spoke. 

"  Want  mammy,"  she  said  sleepily,  and  at  the 
transfer  remembered  her  father,  ^'and  daddy 
too,"  she  added  politely. 

Miss  Eden  was  somewhere  or  other.  Wher- 
ever she  was  she  was  alone. 

And  these  three  were  together. 

"  I  daresay  you're  right  about  that  girl,"  said 
Mr.  Despard.  "  Poor  wretch  !  By  Jove,  she  was 
ugly ! " 


THE     LOVER,     THE     GIRL,     AND     THE 

ONLOOKER 

THE  two  were  alone  in  the  grassy  courtyard 
of  the  ruined  castle.  The  rest  of  the  picnic 
party  had  wandered  away  from  them,  or  they 
from  it.  Out  of  the  green-grown  mound  of 
fallen  masonry  by  the  corner  of  the  chapel  a 
great  may-bush  grew,  silvered  and  pearled  on 
every  scented,  still  spray.  The  sky  was  deep, 
clear,  strong  blue  above,  and  against  the  blue, 
the  wallflowers  shone  bravely  from  the  cracks 
and  crevices  of  ruined  arch  and  wall  and  buttress. 

"  They  shine  like  gold,"  she  said.  "  I  wish 
one  could  get  at  them  ! " 

"  Do  you  want  some  ?  "  he  said,  and  on  the 
instant  his  hand  had  found  a  strong  jutting 
stone,  his  foot  a  firm  ledge  —  and  she  saw  his 
figure,  grey  flannel  against  grey  stone,  go  up  the 
wall  towards  the  yellow  flowers. 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  she  cried.     "  I  don't  really  want 
them  —  please  not  —  I  wish  —  " 
p  209 


210  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

Then  she  stopped,  because  he  was  already 
some  twelve  feet  from  the  ground,  and  she 
knew  that  one  should  not  speak  to  a  man  who 
is  climbing  ruined  walls.  So  she  clasped  her 
hands  and  waited,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  go 
out  like  a  candle  in  the  wind,  and  to  leave  only 
a  dark,  empty,  sickening  space  where,  a  moment 
before,  it  had  beat  in  anxious  joy.  For  she 
loved  him,  had  loved  him  these  two  years,  had 
loved  him  since  the  day  of  their  first  meeting. 
And  that  was  just  as  long  as  he  had  loved  her. 
But  he  had  never  told  his  love.  There  is  a  code 
of  honour,  right  or  wTong,  and  it  forbids  a  man 
with  an  income  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  to 
speak  of  love  to  a  girl  who  is  reckoned  an  heiress. 
There  are  plenty  who  transgress  the  code,  but 
they  are  in  all  the  other  stories.  He  drove  his 
passion  on  the  curb,  and  mastered  it.  Yet  the 
questions  —  Does  she  love  me  ?  Does  she  know 
I  love  her  ?  Does  she  wonder  why  I  don't 
speak  ?  and  the  counter-questions  —  Will  she 
think  I  don't  care  ?  Doesn't  she  perhaps  care 
at  all  ?  Will  she  marry  someone  else  before 
I've  earned  the  right  to  try  to  make  her  love 
me  ?  afforded  a  see-saw  of  reflection,  agonising 


LOVER,   GIRL,   AND    ONLOOKER  211 

enough,  for  those  small  hours  of  wakefulness 
when  we  let  our  emotions  play  the  primitive 
games  with  us.  But  always  the  morning 
brought  strength  to  keep  to  his  resolution. 
He  saw  her  three  times  a  year,  when  Christ- 
mas, Easter,  and  Midsummer  brought  her  to 
stay  with  an  aunt,  brought  him  home  to  his 
people  for  holidays.  And  though  he  had  de- 
nied himself  the  joy  of  speaking  in  w^ords,  he 
had  let  his  eyes  speak  more  than  he  knew.  And 
now  he  had  reached  the  wallflowers  high  up, 
and  was  plucking  them  and  throwing  them 
down  so  that  they  fell  in  a  wavering  bright 
shower  round  her  feet.  She  did  not  pick  them 
up.  Her  eyes  were  on  him ;  and  the  empty 
place  where  her  heart  used  to  be  seemed  to 
swell  till  it  almost  choked  her. 

He  was  coming  down  now.  He  was  only 
about  twenty-five  feet  from  the  ground.  There 
was  no  sound  at  all  but  the  grating  of  his  feet 
as  he  set  them  on  the  stones,  and  the  movement, 
now  and  then,  of  a  bird  in  the  ivy.  Then  came 
a  rustle,  a  gritty  clatter,  loud  falling  stones :  his 
foot  had  slipped,  and  he  had  fallen.  No  —  he 
was  hanging    by  his  hands  above  the  great  re- 


212  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

fectory  arch,  and  his  body  swung  heavily  with 
the  impetus  of  the  checked  fall.  He  was  moving 
along  now,  slowly  —  hanging  by  his  hands  ;  now 
he  grasped  an  ivy  root  —  another  —  and  pulled 
himself  up  till  his  knee  was  on  the  moulding  of 
the  arch.  She  would  never  have  believed  any- 
one who  had  told  her  that  only  two  minutes  had 
been  lived  between  the  moment  of  his  stumble 
and  the  other  moment  when  his  foot  touched 
the  grass  and  he  came  towards  her  among  the 
fallen  wallflowers.  She  was  a  very  nice  girl 
and  not  at  all  forward,  and  I  cannot  understand 
or  excuse  her  conduct.  She  made  two  steps 
towards  him  with  her  hands  held  out  —  caught 
him  by  the  arms  just  above  the  elbow  —  shook 
him  angrily,  as  one  shakes  a  naughty  child  — 
looked  him  once  in  the  eyes  and  buried  her  face 
in  his  neck  —  sobbing  long,  dry,  breathless  sobs. 

Even  then  he  tried  to  be  strong. 

"  Don't !  "  he  said  tenderly,  "  don't  worry.  It's 
all  right  —  I  was  a  fool.  Pull  yourself  together 
—  there's  someone  coming." 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  for  the  touch  of  his 
cheek,  pressed  against  her  hair,  told  her  all  that 
she  wanted  to  know.     "  Let  them  come,  I  don't 


LOVER,   GIRL,   AND   ONLOOKER  213 

care  !  Oh,  how  could  you  be  so  silly  and  horrid  ? 
Oh,  thank  God,  thank  God !  Oh,  how  could 
you  ?  " 

Of  course,  a  really  honourable  young  man 
would  have  got  out  of  the  situation  somehow. 
He  didn't.  He  accepted  it,  with  his  arms  round 
her  and  his  lips  against  the  face  where  the  tears 
now  ran  warm  and  salt.  It  was  one  of  the 
immortal  moments. 

The  picture  was  charming,  too  —  a  picture  to 
wring  the  heart  of  the  onlooker  with  envy,  or 
sympathy,  according  to  his  nature.  But  there 
was  only  one  onlooker,  a  man  of  forty,  or 
thereabouts,  who  paused  for  an  instant  under 
the  great  gate  of  the  castle  and  took  in  the  full 
charm  and  meaning  of  the  scene.  He  turned 
away,  and  went  back  along  the  green  path 
with  hell  in  his  heart.  The  other  two  were 
in  Paradise.  The  Onlooker  fell  like  the  third 
in  Eden  —  the  serpent,  in  fact.  Two  miles 
away  he  stopped  and  lit  a  pipe. 

"  It's  got  to  be  borne,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
"  like  all  the  rest  of  it.  She^s  happy  enough. 
I  ought  to  be  glad.  Anyway,  I  can't  stop  it." 
Perhaps  he  swore  a  little.     If  he  did,  the  less 


214  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

precise  and  devotional  may  pardon  him.  He 
had  loved  the  Girl  since  her  early  teens,  and  it 
was  only  yesterday's  post  that  had  brought  him 
the  appointment  that  one  might  marry  on.  The 
appointment  had  come  through  her  father,  for 
whom  the  Onlooker  had  fagged  at  Eton.  He 
went  back  to  London,  hell  burning  briskly. 
Moral  maxims  and  ethereal  ideas  notwithstand- 
ing, it  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  glad  that 
she  was  happy  —  like  that. 

#^L,  4A.  41.  ^  ^^ 

w  ^  ^  TP  ^^ 

The  Lover  who  came  to  his  love  over  strewn 
wallflowers  desired  always,  as  has  been  seen,  to 
act  up  to  his  moral  ideas.  So  he  took  next  day 
a  much  earlier  train  than  was  at  all  pleasant, 
and  called  on  her  father  to  explain  his  position 
and  set  forth  his  prospects.  His  coming  was 
heralded  by  a  letter  from  her.  One  must  not 
quote  it  —  it  is  not  proper  to  read  other  people's 
letters,  especially  letters  to  a  trusted  father,  from 
a  child,  only  and  adored.  Its  effect  may  be  in- 
dicated briefly.  It  showed  the  father  that  the 
Girl's  happiness  had  had  two  long  years  in 
which  to  learn  to  grow  round  the  thought  of 
the    young    man,  whom    he    now  faced  for  the 


LOVER,    GIRL,   AND   ONLOOKER  215 

first  time.  Odd,  for  to  the  father  lie  seemed 
just  like  other  yomig  men.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  there  were  so  many  more  of  the  same 
pattern  from  whom  she  might  have  chosen. 
And  many  of  them  well  off,  too.  However,  the 
letter  lay  in  the  prosperous  pocket-book  in  the 
breast  of  the  father's  frock-coat,  and  the  Lover 
was  received  as  though  that  letter  were  a  charm 
to  ensure  success.  A  faulty,  or  at  least  a  slow- 
working,  charm,  however,  for  the  father  did  not 
lift  a  bag  of  gold  from  his  safe  and  say  :  "  Take 
her,  take  this  also  —  be  happy  "  —  he  only  con- 
sented to  a  provisional  engagement,  took  an 
earnest  interest  in  the  young  man's  affairs,  and 
offered  to  make  his  daughter  an  annual  allow- 
ance on  her  marriage. 

"  At  my  death  she  will  have  more,"  he  said, 
"  for,  of  course,  I  have  insured  my  life.  You, 
of  course,  w^ill  insure  yours." 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  the  Lover  echoed  warmly ; 
"  does  it  matter  what  office  ?  " 

"  Oh,  any  good  office  —  the  Influential,  if  you 
like.     I'm  a  director,  you  know." 

The  young  man  made  a  reverent  note  of  the 
name,  and  the  interview  seemed  played  out. 


216  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  It's  a  complicated  nuisance,"  the  father 
mused;  "it  isn't  even  as  if  I  knew  anything 
of  the  chap.  I  oughtn't  to  have  allowed  the 
child  to  make  these  long  visits  to  her  aunt.  Or 
I  ouglit  to  have  gone  with  her.  But  I  never 
could  stand  my  sister  Fanny.  Well,  well,"  and 
he  went  back  to  his  work  with  the  plain  un- 
varnished heartache  of  the  anxious  father  —  not 
romantic  and  pretty  like  the  lover's  pangs,  but 
as  uncomfortable  as  toothache,  all  the  same. 

He  had  another  caller  that  afternoon ;  he 
whom  we  know  as  the  Onlooker  came  to  thank 
him  for  the  influence  that  had  got  him  the 
appointment  as  doctor  to  the  Influential  In- 
surance Company. 

The  father  opened  his  heart  to  the  Onlooker 
—  and  the  Onlooker  had  to  bear  it.  It  was  an 
hour  full  of  poignant  sentiments.  The  only 
definite  thought  that  came  to  the  Onlooker  was 
this  —  "I  must  hold  my  tongue.  I  must  hold 
my  tongue."     He  held  it. 

Three  days  later  he  took  up  his  new  work. 
And  the  very  first  man  who  came  to  him  for 
medical  examination  was  the  man  in  w^hose 
arms  he  had  seen  the  girl   he  loved. 


LOVER,    GIRL,    AND    ONLOOKER  217 


The  Onlooker  asked  the  first  needful  questions 
automatically.  To  himself  he  was  saying  :  "  The 
situation  is  dramatically  good  ;  but  I  don't  see 
how  to  develop  the  action.  It  really  is  rather 
amusing  that  I  —  /  should  have  to  tap  his 
beastly  chest,  and  listen  to  his  cursed  lungs,  and 
ask  sympathetic  questions  about  his  idiotic  in- 
fant illnesses  —  one  thing,  he  ought  to  be  able 
to  remember  those  pretty  vividly  —  the  con- 
founded pup." 

The  Onlooker  had  never  done  anything  wronger 
than  you  have  done,  my  good  reader,  and  he 
never  expected  to  meet  a  giant  temptation,  any 
more  than  you  do.  A  man  may  go  all  his  days 
and  never  meet  Apollyon.  On  the  other  hand, 
Apollyon  may  be  waiting  for  one  round  the 
corner  of  the  next  street.  The  devil  was  wait- 
ing for  the  Onlooker  in  the  answers  to  his 
careless  questions  —  "  Father  alive  ?  No  ?  What 
did  he  die  of  ?  "  For  the  answer  was  "  Heart," 
and  in  it  the  devil  rose  and  showed  the  Onlooker 
the  really  only  true  and  artistic  way  to  develop 
the  action  in  this  situation,  so  dramatic  in  its  pos- 
sibilities. The  illuminative  flash  of  temptation 
was    so    sudden,  so    brilliant,   that    the    Doctor- 


218  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

Onlooker  closed  his  soul's  eyes  and  yielded  with- 
out even  the  least  pretence  of  resistance. 

He  took  his  stethoscope  from  the  table,  and 
he  felt  as  though  he  had  picked  up  a  knife  to 
stab  the  other  man  in  the  back.  As,  in  fact, 
he  had. 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  stabbed  man  was  reel- 
ing from  the  Onlooker's  consulting  room.  Mind 
and  soul  reeled,  that  is,  but  his  body  was  stiffer 
and  straighter  than  usual.  He  walked  with 
more  than  his  ordinary  firmness  of  gait,  as  a 
man  does  who  is  just  drunk  enough  to  know 
that  he  must  try  to  look  sober. 

He  walked  down  the  street,  certain  words 
ringing  in  his  ears  —  "  Heart  affected  —  probably 
hereditary  weakness.  No  office  in  the  world 
would  insure  you." 

And  so  it  was  all  over  —  the  dreams,  the 
hopes,  the  palpitating  faith  in  a  beautiful  future. 
His  days  might  be  long,  they  might  be  brief; 
but  be  his  life  long  or  short,  he  must  live  it 
alone.  He  had  a  little  fight  with  himself  as 
he  went  down  Wimpole  Street ;  then  he  hailed 
a  hansom,  and  went  and  told  her  father,  who 
quite   agreed   with   him    that    it    was    all    over. 


LOVER,    GIRL,    AND   ONLOOKER  219 

The  father  wondered  at  himself  for  being  more 
sorry  than  glad. 

Then  the  Lover  went  and  told  the  Girl.  He 
had  told  the  father  first  to  insure  himself  against 
any  chance  of  yielding  to  what  he  knew  the  Girl 
would  say.  She  said  it,  of  course,  with  her 
dear  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  I  won't  give  you  up  just  because  you're  ill," 
she  said  ;  "  why,  you  want  me  more  than  ever  !  " 

"  But  I  may  die  at  any  moment." 

"  So  may  I !  And  you  may  live  to  be  a  hun- 
dred —  I'll  take  my  chance.  Oh,  don't  you  see, 
too,  that  if  there  is  only  a  little  time  we  ought 
to  spend  it  together?" 

"  It's  impossible,"  he  said,  "  it's  no  good.  I 
must  set  my  teeth  and  bear  it.  And  you  — 
I  hope  it  won't  be  as  hard  for  you  as  it  will  for 
for  me." 

"  But  you  canH  give  me  up  if  I  won't  he  given 
up,  can  you  ?  " 

His  smile  struck  her  dumb.  It  was  more 
convincing  than  his  words. 

"  But  why  ?  "  she  said  presently.  "  Why  — 
why  —  why?  " 

"  Because  I  won't ;   because   it's  wrong.     My 


220  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

father  ouglit  never  to  have  married.  He  had 
no  right  to  bring  me  into  the  world  to  suffer 
like  this.  It's  a  crime.  And  I'll  not  be  a 
criminal.  Not  even  for  you — not  even  for  you. 
You'll  forgive  me  —  won't  you  ?  I  didn't  know 
—  and  —  oh,  what's  the  use  of  talking  ?  " 

Yet  they  talked  for  hours.  Conventionally  he 
should  have  torn  himself  away,  unable  to  bear 
the  strain  of  his  agony.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
sat  by  her  holding  her  hand.  It  was  for  the  last 
time  —  the  last,  last  time.  There  was  really  a 
third  at  that  interview.  The  Onlooker  had 
imagination  enough  to  see  the  scene  between  the 
parting  lovers. 

They  parted. 

And  now  the  Onlooker  dared  not  meet  her  — 
dared  not  call  at  the  house  as  he  had  used  to  do. 
At  last  —  the  father  pressed  him  —  he  went. 
He  met  her.  And  it  was  as  though  he  had  met 
the  ghost  of  her  whom  he  had  loved.  Her  eyes 
had  blue  marks  under  them,  her  chin  had  grown 
more  pointed,  her  nose  sharper.  There  was  a 
new  line  on  her  forehead,  and  her  eyes  had 
changed. 

Over  the  wine  he  heard  from  the  father  that 


LOVER,    GIRL,    AND   ONLOOKER  221 

she  was  pining  for  the  Lover  who  had  inherited 
heart  disease. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  you  who  saw  him,  by  the 
way,"  said  he,  "  a  tall,  well-set-up  young  fellow 
—  dark  —  not  bad  looking." 

"I  —  I  don't  remember,"  lied  the  Onlooker, 
with  the  eyes  of  his  memory  on  the  white  face 
of  the  man  he  had  stabbed. 

Now  the  Lover  and  the  Onlooker  had  each  his 
own  burden  to  bear.  And  the  Lover's  was  the 
easier.  He  worked  still,  though  there  was  now 
nothing  to  work  for  more ;  he  worked  as  he  had 
never  worked  in  his  life,  because  he  knew  that  if 
he  did  not  take  to  work  he  should  take  to  drink 
or  worse  devils,  and  he  set  his  teeth  and  swore 
that  her  Lover  should  not  be  degraded.  He 
knew  that  she  loved  him,  and  there  was  a  kind 
of  fierce  pain-pleasure  —  like  that  of  scratching  a 
sore  —  in  the  thought  that  she  was  as  wretched 
as  he  was,  that,  divided  in  all  else,  they  were  yet 
united  in  their  suffering.  He  thought  it  made 
him  more  miserable  to  know  of  her  misery.  But 
it  didn't.  He  never  saw  her,  but  he  dreamed  of 
her,  and  sometimes  the  dreams  got  out  of  hand, 
and  carried  him  a  thousand  worlds  from  all  that 


222  THE    LITERARY    SENSE 

lay  between  them.     Then  he  had   to  wake  up. 
And  that  was  bad. 

But  the  Onlooker  was  no  dreamer,  and  he  saw 
her  about  three  times  a  week.  He  saw  how  the 
light  of  life  that  his  lying  lips  had  blown  out 
was  not  to  be  rekindled  by  his  or  any  man's 
breath.  He  saw  her  slenderness  turn  to  thinness, 
the  pure,  healthy  pallor  of  her  rounded  cheek 
change  to  a  sickly  white,  covering  a  clear-cut 
mask  of  set  endurance.  And  there  was  no  work 
that  could  shut  out  that  sight  —  no  temptation 
of  the  world,  the  flesh,  or  the  devil  to  give  him 
even  the  relief  of  a  fight.  He  had  no  tempta- 
tions ;  he  had  never  had  but  the  one.  His  soul 
was  naked  to  the  bitter  wind  of  the  actual ;  and 
the  days  went  by,  went  by,  and  every  day  he 
knew  more  and  more  surely  that  he  had  lied  and 
thrown  away  his  soul,  and  that  the  wages  of  sin 
were  death,  and  no  other  thing  whatever.  And 
gradually,  little  by  little,  the  whole  worth  of  life 
seemed  to  lie  in  the  faint,  far  chance  of  his  being 
able  to  undo  the  one  triumphantly  impulsive  and 
unreasoning  action  of  his  life. 

But  there  are  some  acts  that  there  is  no  un- 
doing.    And    the    hell  that    had  burned   in    his 


LOVER,    GIRL,   AND   ONLOOKER  223 

heart  so  fiercely  when  he  had  seen  her  in  the 
other  man's  arms  burned  now  with  new  bright 
lights  and  infernal  flickering  flame  tongues. 

And  at  last,  out  of  hell,  the  Onlooker  reached 
out  his  hands  and  caught  at  prayer.  He  caught 
at  it  as  a  drowning  man  catches  at  a  white  gleam 
in  the  black  of  the  surging  sea  about  him  —  it 
may  be  a  painted  spar,  it  may  be  empty  foam. 
The  Onlooker  prayed. 

And  that  very  evening  he  ran  up  against  the 
Lover  at  the  Temple  Station,  and  he  got  into  the 
same  carriage  with  him. 

He  said,  "Excuse  me.  You  don't  remember 
me?" 

"  I'm  not  likely  to  have  forgotten  you,"  said 
the  Lover. 

"  I  fear  my  verdict  was  a  great  blow.  You 
look  very  worried,  very  ill.  News  like  that  is  a 
great  shock." 

"  It  is  a  little  unsettling,"  said  the  Lover. 

"Are  you  still  going  on  with  your  usual  work  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Speaking  professionally,  I  think  you  are 
wrong.  You  lessen  your  chances  of  life  !  Why 
don't  you  try  a  complete  change  ?  " 


224  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Because  —  if  you  must  know,  my  chances  of 
life  have  ceased  to  interest  me." 

The  Lover  was  short  with  the  Onlooker ;  but 
he  persisted. 

"  Well,  if  one  isn't  interested  in  one's  life,  one 
may  be  interested  in  one's  death  —  or  the  manner 
of  it.  In  your  place,  I  should  enlist.  It's  better 
to  die  of  a  bullet  in  South  Africa  than  of  fright 
in  London." 

That  roused  the  Lover,  as  it  was  meant  to  do. 

"  I  don't  really  know  what  business  it  is  of 
yours,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  but  it's  your  business  to 
know  that  they  wouldn't  pass  a  man  with  a 
heart  like  mine." 

"  I  don't  know.  They're  not  so  particular 
just  now.  They  want  men.  I  should  try  it  if 
I  were  you.  If  you  don't  have  a  complete 
change  you'll  go  all  to  pieces.     That's  all." 

The  Onlooker  got  out  at  the  next  station. 
Short  of  owning  to  his  own  lie,  he  had  done 
what  he  could  to  insure  its  being  found  out  for 
the  lie  it  was  —  or,  at  least,  for  a  mistake. 
And  when  he  had  done  what  he  could,  he  saw 
that  the  Lover  might  not  find  it  out  —  might  be 
passed  for  the  Army  —  might  go  to  the  Front  — 


LOVER,    GIRL,    AND    ONLOOKER  225 

might  be  killed  —  and  then  —  "  Well,  I've 
done  my  best,  anyhow,"  he  said  to  himself  — 
and  himself  answered  him  :  "  Liar  —  you  have 
not  done  your  best !  You  will  have  to  eat  your 
lie.  Yes  —  though  it  will  smash  your  life  and 
ruin  you  socially  and  professionally.  You  will 
have  to' tell  him  you  lied  —  and  tell  him  why. 
You  will  never  let  him  go  to  South  Africa  with- 
out telling  him  the  truth  —  and  you  know  it." 

"Well  —  you  know  best,  I  suppose,"  he  said 
to  himself. 

^*  ^"  ^«*  ^n*  ^^  Tp 

"  But  are  you  perfectly  certain  ?  " 

"Perfectly.  I  tell  you,  man,  you're  sound's 
a  bell,  and  a  fine  fathom  of  a  young  man  ye  are, 
too.  Certain  ?  Losh,  man  —  ye  can  call  in  the 
whole  College  of  Physeecians  in  consultation,  an' 
I'll  wager  me  professional  reputation  they'll 
endorse  me  opeenion.  Yer  hairt's  as  sound's  a 
roach.  T'other  man  must  ha'  been  asleep  when 
ye  consulted  him.  Ye'll  mak'  a  fine  soldier,  my 
lad." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  the  Lover  —  and  he  went 
out  from  the  presence.  This  time  he  reeled  like 
a  man  too  drunk  to  care  how  drunk  he  looks. 


226  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

He  drove  in  cabs  from  Harley  Street  to  Wim- 
pole  Street,  and  from  Wimpole  Street  to  Brooke 
Street  —  and  he  saw  Sir  William  this  and  Sir 
Henry  that,  and  Mr.  The-other-thing,  the  great 
heart  specialist. 

And  then  he  bought  a  gardenia,  and  went 
home  and  dressed  himself  in  his  most  beautiful 
frock-coat  and  his  softest  white  silk  tie,  and  put 
the  gardenia  in  his  button-hole  —  and  went  to 
see  the  Girl. 

"  Looks  like  as  if  he  was  going  to  a  wedding," 
said  his  landlady. 

When  he  had  told  the  Girl  everything,  and 
when  she  was  able  to  do  anything  but  laugh 
and  cry  and  cling  to  him  with  thin  hands,  she 
said  — 

"  Dear  —  I  do  so  hate  to  think  badly  of  any- 
one. But  do  you  really  think  that  man  was 
mistaken  ?     He's  very,  very  clever." 

"My  child  —  Sir  Henry  —  and  Sir  William 
and  Mr.  —  " 

"  Ah !  I  don't  mean  that  I  hnow  you're  all 
right.  Thank  God  !  Oh,  thank  God  !  I  mean, 
don't  you  think  he  may  have  lied  to  you  to  pre- 
vent 3^our  —  marrying  me  ?  " 


LOVER,    GIRL,    AND    ONLOOKER  227 

"  But  why  should  he  ?  " 

"  He  asked  me  to  marry  him  three  weeks 
ago.  He's  a  very  old  friend  of  ours.  I  do  hate 
to  be  suspicious  —  but  —  it  is  odd.  And  then 
his  trying  to  get  you  to  South  Africa.  I'm  cer- 
tain he  wanted  you  out  of  the  way.  He  wanted 
you  to  get  killed.  Oh,  how  can  people  be  so 
cruel ! " 

"  I  believe  you're  right,"  said  the  Lover 
thoughtfully ;  "  I  couldn't  have  believed  that 
a  man  could  be  base  like  that,  through  and 
through.  But  I  suppose  some  people  ai^e  like 
that  —  without  a  gleam  of  feeling  or  remorse  or 
pity." 

"  You  ought  to  expose  him." 

«  Not  I  —  we'll  just  cut  him.  That's  all  I'll 
trouble  to  do.  I've  got  yoxb  —  I've  got  you  in 
spite  of  him  —  I  can't  waste  my  time  in  hunting 
down  vermin." 


THE   DUEL 

«  T3UT  I  wasn't  doing  any  harm,"  she  urged 
JLJ  piteously.  She  looked  like  a  child  just 
going  to  cry. 

"  He  was  holding  your  hand." 

"  He  wasn't  —  I  was  holding  his.  I  was  tell- 
ing him  his  fortune.  And,  anyhow,  it's  not 
your  business." 

She  had  remembered  this  late  and  phrased  it 
carelessly. 

"  It  is  my  Master's  business,"  said  he. 

She  repressed  the  retort  that  touched  her  lips. 
After  all,  there  was  something  fine  about  this 
man,  who,  in  the  first  month  of  his  ministrations 
as  Parish  Priest,  could  actually  dare  to  call  on 
her,  the  richest  and  most  popular  woman  in  the 
district,  and  accuse  her  of  —  well,  most  people 
would  hardly  have  gone  so  far  as  to  call  it  flirt- 
ing. Propriety  only  knew  what  the  Reverend 
Christopher  Cassilis  might  be  disposed  to  call  it. 

229 


230  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

They  sat  in  the  pleasant  fire-lit  drawing-room 
looking  at  each  other. 

"  He's  got  a  glorious  face,"  she  thought.  "  Like 
a  Greek  god  —  or  a  Christian  martyr  !  I  won- 
der whether  he's  ever  been  in  love  ?  " 

He  thought :  "  She  is  abominably  pretty.  I 
suppose  beauty  is  a  temptation." 

"  Well,"  she  said  impatiently,  "  you've  been 
very  rude  indeed,  and  I've  listened  to  you.  Is 
your  sermon  quite  done  ?  Have  you  any  more 
to  say  ?     Or  shall  I  give  you  some  tea  ?  " 

"  I  have  more  to  say,"  he  answered,  turning 
his  eyes  from  hers.  "  You  are  beautiful  and 
young  and  rich  —  you  have  a  kind  heart  —  oh, 
yes  —  I've  heard  little  things  in  the  village 
already.  You  are  a  born  general.  You  organise 
better  than  any  woman  I  ever  knew,  though  it's 
only  dances  and  picnics  and  theatricals  and  con- 
certs. You  have  great  gifts.  You  could  do 
great  work  in  the  world,  and  you  throw  it  all 
away  ;  you  give  your  life  to  the  devil's  dance  you 
call  pleasure.     Why  do  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Is  that  your  business  too  ? "  she  asked 
again. 

And  again  he  answered  — 


THE   DUEL  231 

"  It  is  my  Master's  business." 

Had  she  read  his  words  in  a  novel  they 
would  have  seemed  to  her  priggish,  unnatural, 
and  superlatively  impertinent.  Spoken  by  those 
thin,  perfectly  curved  lips,  they  were  at  least 
interesting. 

"That  wasn't  what  you  began  about,"  she 
said,  twisting  the  rings  on  her  fingers.  The 
catalogue  of  her  gifts  and  graces  was  less  a 
novelty  to  her  than  the  reproaches  to  her 
virtue. 

"  No  —  am  I  to  repeat  what  I  began  about  ? 
Ah  —  but  I  will.  I  began  by  saying  what  I 
came  here  to  say :  that  you,  as  a  married 
woman,  have  no  right  to  turn  men's  heads 
and  make  them  long  for  what  can  never  be." 

"But  you  don't  know,"  she  said.  "My  hus- 
band —  " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  know,"  he  interrupted. 
"  Your  husband  is  alive,  and  you  are  bound 
to  be  faithful  to  him,  in  thought,  word,  and 
deed.  What  I  saw  and  heard  in  the  little  copse 
last  night  —  " 

"  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't,"  she  said.  "  You 
talk  as  if —  " 


232  THE    LITERARY   SENSE 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I'm  willing  —  even  anxious, 
I  think  —  to  believe  that  you  would  not  — 
could  not  —  " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  jumping  up,  "  this  is  intoler- 
able !     How  dare  you  !  " 

He  had  risen  too. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  not 
afraid  of  your  anger,  nor  of  your — your  other 
weapons.  Think  what  you  are  !  Think  of  your 
great  powers  —  and  you  are  wasting  them  all 
in  making  fools  of  a  pack  of  young  idiots  —  " 

"  But  what  could  I  do  with  my  gifts  —  as 
you  call  them  ?  " 

a  Do  ?  —  why,  you  could  endow  and  organise 
and  run  any  one  of  a  hundred  schemes  for  help- 
ing on  God's  work  in  the  world." 

"  For  instance  ?  "  Her  charming  smile  en- 
raged him. 

"  For  instance  ?  Well  — -for  instance  —  you 
might  start  a  home  for  those  women  who  began 
as  you  have  begun,  and  who  have  gone  down 
into  hell,  as  you  will  go  —  unless  you  let  your- 
self be  warned." 

She  was  for  the  moment  literally  speechless. 
Then  she  remembered  how  he  had  said ;  "  I  am 


THE   DUEL  233 

not  afraid  of  —  your  weapons."  She  drew  a 
deep  breath  and  spoke  gently  — 

"  I  believe  you  don't  mean  to  be  insulting —  I 
believe  you  mean  kindly  to  me.  Please  say  no 
more  now.  I'll  think  over  it  all.  I'm  not 
angry  —  only  —  do  you  really  think  you  under- 
stand everything  ?  " 

He  might  have  answered  that  he  did  not 
understand  her.  She  did  not  mean  him  to  un- 
derstand. She  knew  well  enough  that  she  was 
giving  him  something  to  puzzle  over  when  she 
smiled  that  beautiful,  troubled,  humble,  appeal- 
ing half-smile. 

He  did  not  answer  at  all.  He  stood  a  moment 
twisting  his  soft  hat  in  his  hands :  she  admired 
his  hands  very  much. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I've  pained  you  more  than  was 
needed,"  he  said  at  last,  "it  is  only  because  —  " 
here  her  smile  caught  him,  and  he  ended  vaguely 
in  a  decreasing  undertone.  She  heard  the  words 
"  king's  jewels,"  "  pearl  of  great  price." 

When  he  was  gone  she  said  "  Well !  "  more 
than  once.  Then  she  ran  to  the  low  mirror 
over  the  mantelpiece,  and  looked  earnestly  at 
herself. 


234  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  You  do  look  rather  nice  to-day,"  she  said. 
"  And  so  he's  not  afraid  of  any  of  your  weapons  ! 
And  I'm  not  afraid  of  any  of  his.  It's  a  fair 
duel.  Only  all  the  provocation  came  from  him 
—  so  the  choice  of  weapons  is  mine.  And  they 
shall  be  my  weapons :  he  has  weapons  to  match 
them  right  enough,  only  the  poor  dear  doesn't 
know  it."  She  went  away  to  dress  for  dinner, 
humming  gaily  — 

"  My  love  has  breath  o'  roses, 
O'  roses,  o'  roses ; 
And  arms  like  lily  posies 
To  fold  a  lassie  in  !  '^ 

Not  next  day  —  she  was  far  too  clever  for 
that,  but  on  the  day  after  that  he  received  a 
note.  Her  handwriting  was  charming ;  no  ex- 
travagances, every  letter  soberly  but  perfectly 
formed. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  all  you  said  the 
other  day.  You  are  quite  mistaken  about  some 
things  —  but  in  some  you  are  right.  Will  you 
show  me  how  to  work  ?  I  will  do  whatever 
you  tell  me." 

Then  the  Reverend  Christopher  was  glad  of 
the  courage  that  had  inspired  him  to  denounce 


THE   DUEL  235 

to  his  parishioners  all  that  seemed  to  him  amiss 
in  them. 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that  I  had 
the  courage  to  treat  her  exactly  as  I  have  done 
the  others  —  even  if  she  has  beautiful  hair,  and 
eyes  like  —  like  —  " 

He  stopped  the  thought  before  he  found  the 
simile  —  not  because  he  imagined  that  there 
could  be  danger  in  it,  but  because  he  had  been 
trained  to  stop  thoughts  of  eyes  and  hair  as 
neatly  as  a  skilful  boxer  stops  a  blow. 

She  had  not  been  so  trained,  and  she  admired 
his  eyes  and  hair  quite  as  much  as  he  might  have 
admired  hers  if  she  had  not  been  married. 

So  now  the  Reverend  Christopher  had  a  helper 
in  his  parish  work ;  and  he  needed  help,  for  his 
plain-speaking  had  already  offended  half  his 
parish.  And  his  helper  was,  as  he  had  had 
the  sense  to  know  she  could  be,  the  most 
accomplished  organiser  in  the  country.  She 
ran  the  parish  library,  she  arranged  the  school 
treat,  she  started  evening  classes  for  wood  carv- 
ing and  art  needlework.  She  spent  money  like 
water,  and  time  as  freely  as  money.  Quietly, 
persistently,  relentlessly,  she    was   making   her- 


236  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

self  necessary  to  the  Reverend  Christopher.  He 
wrote  to  her  every  day  —  there  were  so  many  in- 
structions to  give  —  but  he  seldom  spoke  with 
her.  When  he  called  she  was  never  at  home. 
Sometimes  they  met  in  the  village  and  exchanged 
a  few  sentences.  She  was  always  gravely  sweet, 
intensely  earnest.  There  was  a  certain  smile 
which  he  remembered  —  a  beautiful,  troubled, 
appealing  smile.  He  wondered  why  she  smiled 
no  more. 

Her  friends  shrugged  their  shoulders  over  her 
new  fancy. 

"  It  is  odd,"  her  bosom  friend  said.  "  It  can't 
be  the  parson,  though  he's  as  beautiful  as  he  can 
possibly  be,  because  she  sees  next  to  nothing  of 
him.  And  yet  I  can't  think  that  Betty  of  all 
people  could  really  —  " 

"  Oh  —  I  don't  know,"  said  the  bosom  friend 
of  her  bosom  friend.  "  Women  often  do  take  to 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  when  they  get  tired 
of  —  " 

"Of?" 

"  The  other  sort  of  thing,  don't  you  know  ! " 

"  How  horrid  you  are,"  said  Betty's  bosom 
friend.  "  I  believe  you're  a  most  dreadful  cynic, 
really." 


THE  DUEL  237 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  friend,  complacently 
stroking  his  moustache. 

Betty  certainly  was  enjoying  herself.  She 
had  the  great  gift  of  enjoying  thoroughly  any 
new  game.  She  enjoyed,  first,  the  newness ; 
and,  besides,  the  hidden  lining  of  her  new  mas- 
querade dress  enchanted  her.  But  as  her  new 
industries  developed  she  began  to  enjoy  the 
things  for  themselves.  It  is  always  delightful 
to  do  w^hat  we  can  do  well,  and  the  Reverend 
Christopher  had  been  right  when  he  said  she  was 
a  born  general. 

"  How  easy  it  all  is,"  she  said,  "  and  what  a 
fuss  those  clergy -hags  make  about  it !  What 
a  wife  I  should  be  for  a  bishop  ! "  She  smiled 
and  sighed. 

It  was  pleasant,  too,  to  wake  in  the  morning, 
not  to  the  recollection  of  the  particular  stage 
which  yesterday's  flirtation  happened  to  have 
reached,  but  to  the  sense  of  some  difficulty  over- 
come, some  object  achieved,  some  rough  place 
made  smooth  for  her  Girls'  Friendly,  or  her  wood 
carvers,  or  her  Parish  Magazine.  And  within 
it  all  the  secret  charm  of  a  purpose  transfiguring 
with  its  magic  this  eager,  strenuous,  working  life. 


238  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

Her  avoidance  of  the  Reverend  Christopher 
struck  him  at  first  as  modest,  discreet,  and  in 
the  best  possible  taste.  But  presently  it  seemed 
to  him  that  she  rather  overdid  it.  There  were 
many  things  he  v^ould  have  liked  to  discuss  w^ith 
her,  but  she  always  evaded  talk  with  him.  Why  ? 
he  began  to  ask  himself  why.  And  the  question 
wormed  through  his  brain  more  and  more  search- 
ingly.  He  had  seen  her  at  work  now ;  he  knew 
her  powers,  and  her  graces  —  the  powers  and 
the  graces  that  made  her  the  adored  of  her 
Friendly  girls  and  her  carving  boys.  He  re- 
membered, with  hot  ears  and  neck  crimson  above 
his  clerical  collar,  that  interview.  The  things 
he  had  said  to  her !  How  could  he  have  done 
it  ?  Blind  idiot  that  he  had  been !  And  she 
had  taken  it  all  so  sweetly,  so  nobly,  so  humbly. 
She  had  only  needed  a  word  to  turn  her  from 
the  frivolities  of  the  w^orld  to  better  things.  It 
need  not  have  been  the  sort  of  word  he  had  used. 
And  at  a  word  she  had  turned.  That  it  should 
have  been  at  his  word  was  not  perhaps  a  very 
subtle  "flattery  —  but  the  Reverend  Christopher 
swallowed  it  and  never  tasted  it.  He  was  not 
trained  to  distinguish  the  flavours  of  flatteries. 


THE   DUEL  239 

He  never  tasted  it,  but  it  worked  in  his  blood, 
for  all  that.  And  why,  why,  why  would  she 
never  speak  to  him  ?  Could  it  be  that  she  was 
afraid  that  he  would  speak  to  her  now  as  he  had 
once  spoken  ?     He  blushed  again. 

Next  time  he  met  her  she  was  coming  up  to 
the  church  with  a  big  basket  of  flowers  for  the 
altar.  He  took  the  basket  from  her  and  carried 
it  in. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  said  in  that  sweet,  simple,  grave 
way  of  hers.  "  I  can  do  it  very  well.  Indeed, 
I  would  rather." 

He  had  to  go.  The  arrangement  of  the  flowers 
took  more  than  an  hour,  but  when  she  came  out 
with  the  empty  basket,  he  was  waiting  in  the 
porch.     Her  heart  gave  a  little  joyful  jump. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  he. 

"  I'm  rather  late,"  she  said,  as  usual ;  "  couldn't 
you  write  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  write  this.  Sit  down 
a  moment  in  the  porch." 

She  loved  the  masterfulness  of  his  tone.  He 
stood  before  her. 

"  I  want    you  to  forgive  me   for  speaking  to 


240  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

you  as  I  did  —  once.  I'm  afraid  you're  afraid 
that  I  shall  behave  like  that  again.  You 
needn't  be." 

"  Score  number  one,"  she  said  to  herself. 
Aloud  she  said  — 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  and  she  said  it  sweetly, 
seriously. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  went  on  eagerly.  "  I  was 
terribly  wrong.  I  see  it  quite  plainly  now. 
You  do  forgive  me  —  don't  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  she  soberly,  and  sighed. 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Her  serious  eyes 
watched  the  way  of  the  wind  dimpling  the  tall, 
feathery  grass  that  grew  above  the  graves. 

"  Are  you  unhappy  ?  "  he  asked  ;  "  you  never 
smile  now." 

"  I  am  too  busy  to  smile,  I  suppose ' "  she 
said,  and  smiled  the  beautiful,  humble,  appeal- 
ing smile  he  had  so  longed  to  see  again,  though 
he  had  not  known  the  longing  by  its  right  name. 

"  Can't  we  be  friends  ?  "  he  ventured.  "  You 
—  I  am  afraid  3^ou  can  never  trust  me  again." 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  she  said.  "  It  was  very  bitter 
at  the  time,  but  I  thought  it  was  so  brave  of 
you  —  and  kind,  too  —  to  care  what  became  of 


THE  DUEL  241 

me.  If  you  remember,  I  did  want  to  trust  you, 
even  on  that  dreadful  day,  but  you  wouldn't  let 
me." 

"  I  was  a  brute,"  he  said  remorsefully. 

"  I  do  want  to  tell  you  one  thing.  Even  if 
that  boy  had  been  holding  my  hand  I  should 
have  thought  I  had  a  right  to  let  him,  if  I  liked 
—  just  as  much  as  though  I  were  a  girl,  or  a 
widow." 

"I  don't  understand.  But  tell  me  —  please 
tell  me  anything  you  will  tell  me."  His  tone 
was  very  humble. 

"  My  husband  was  a  beast,"  she  said  calmly. 
"  He  betrayed  me,  he  beat  me,  he  had  every  vile 
quality  a  man  can  have.  No,  I'll  be  just  to 
him:  he  was  always  good  tempered  when  he 
was  drunk.  But  when  he  was  sober  he  used 
to  beat  me  and  pinch  me  — " 

"  But  —  but  you  could  have  got  a  separation, 
a  divorce,"  he  gasped. 

"  A  separation  wouldn't  have  freed  me  — 
really.  And  the  Church  doesn't  believe  in  di- 
vorce," she  said  demurely.  "/  did,  however, 
and  I  left  him,  and  instructed  a  solicitor.  But 
the  brute  went  mad  before  I  could  get  free  from 

R 


242  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

him ;  and  now,  I  suppose,  I'm  tied  for  life  to  a 
mad  dog." 

"  Good  God  !  "  said  the  Reverend  Christopher. 

"  I  thought  it  all  out  —  oh,  many,  many 
nights  !  —  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would 
go  out  and  enjoy  myself.  I  never  had  a  good 
time  when  I  was  a  girl.  And  another  thing  I 
decided  —  quite  definitely  —  that  if  ever  I  fell 
in  love  I  would  —  I  should  have  the  right  to  —  I 
mean  that  I  wouldn't  let  a  horrible,  degraded 
brute  of  a  lunatic  stand  between  me  and  the 
man  I  loved.  And  I  was  quite  sure  that  I  was 
right." 

"  And  do  you  still  think  this  ? "  he  asked  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  '^  you've  changed  everything  ! 
I  don't  think  the  same  about  anything  as  I  used 
to  do.  I  think  those  two  years  with  him  must 
have  made  me  nearly  as  mad  as  he  is.  And 
then  I  was  so  young !  I  am  only  twenty-three 
now,  you  know  —  and  it  did  seem  hard  never  to 
have  had  any  fun.  I  did  want  so  much  to  be 
happy." 

She  had  not  intended  to  speak  like  this,  but 
even  as  she  spoke  she  saw  that  this  truth-telling 


THE   DUEL  243 

far  outshone  the  lamp  of  lies  she  had  trimmed 
ready. 

"  You  will  be  happy,"  he  said ;  "  there  are 
better  things  in  the  world  than  —  " 

"  Yes,"   she  said  ;  "  oh,  yes  !  " 

Betty  did  nothing  by  halves.  She  had  kept  a 
barrier  between  her  and  him  till  she  had  excited 
him  to  break  it  down.  The  barrier  once  broken, 
she  let  it  lie  where  he  had  thrown  it,  and  be- 
came, all  at  once,  in  the  most  natural,  matter-of- 
fact,  guileless  way,  his  friend. 

She  consulted  him  about  everything.  Let 
him  call  when  he  would,  she  always  received 
him.  She  surrounded  him  with  the  dainty  fem- 
inine spider  w^ebs  from  which  his  life,  almost 
monastic  till  now,  had  been  quite  free.  She 
imported  a  knitting  aunt,  so  that  he  should  not 
take  fright  at  long  tete-a-tetes.  The  knitting 
aunt  was  deafish  and  blindish,  and  did  not  walk 
much  in  the  rose  garden.  Betty  knew  a  good 
deal  about  roses,  and  she  taught  the  Reverend 
Christopher  all  she  knew.  She  knew  a  little  of 
the  hearts  of  men,  and  she  gently  pushed  him 
on  the  road  to  forgiveness  from  that  half  of  the 
parish  whom  his  first  enthusiastic  denunciations 


244  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

had  offended.  She  rounded  his  angles.  She 
turned  a  wayward  ascetic  into  a  fairly  good  par- 
ish priest.  And  he  talked  to  her  of  ideals  and 
honour  and  the  service  of  God  and  the  work  of 
the  world.  And  she  listened,  and  her  beauty 
spoke  to  him  so  softly  that  he  did  not  know 
that  he  heard. 

One  day  after  long  silence  she  turned  quickly 
and  met  his  eyes.  After  that  she  ceased  to  spin 
webs,  for  she  saw.  Yet  she  was  as  blind  as  he, 
though  she  did  not  know  it  any  more  than  he 
did. 

At  last  he  saw,  in  his  turn,  and  the  flash  of 
the  illumination  nearly  blinded  him. 

It  was  late  evening :  Betty  was  nailing  up  a 
trailing  rose,  and  he  was  standing  by  the  ladder 
holding  the  nails  and  the  snippets  of  scarlet 
cloth.  The  ladder  slipped,  and  he  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  As  soon  as  she  had  assured  him  that 
she  was  not  hurt,  he  said  good  night  and  left 
her. 

Betty  went  indoors  and  cried.  "What  a 
pity  !  "  she  said.  <'  Oh,  what  a  pity  !  Now  he'll 
be  frightened,  and  it's  all  over.  He'll  never 
come  again." 


THE   DUEL  245 

But  the  next  evening  lie  came,  and  when  they 
had  walked  through  the  rose  garden  and  had 
come  to  the    sun-dial  he  stopped    and  spoke  — 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  nothing  else  since  I 
saw  you.  When  I  caught  you  last  night.  For- 
give me  if  I'm  a  fool  —  but  when  I  held  you  — 
don't  be  angry  —  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  you 
loved  me  —  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Betty  very  angrily. 

« Then  I  must  be  mad,"  he  said ;  "  the  way 
you  caught  my  neck  with  your  arm,  and  your 
face  was  against  mine,  and  your  hair  crushed  up 
against  my  ear.  Oh,  Betty,  if  you  don't  love 
me,  what  shall  I  do  ?  For  I  can't  live  without 
you." 

Betty  had  won. 

«  But  —  even  if  I  had  loved  you  —  I'm 
married,"  she  urged  softly. 

"  Yes  —  do  you  suppose  I've  forgotten  that  ? 
But  you  remember  what  you  said  —  about  being 
really  free,  and  not  being  bound  to  that  beast. 
I  see  that  you  were  right  —  right,  right.  It's 
the  rest  of  the  world  that's  wrong.  Oh,  my 
dear  —  I  can't  live  without  you.  Couldn't  you 
love  me  ?     Let's  go  away  —  right  away  together. 


246  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

No  one  will  love  you  as  I  do.  No  one  knows 
you  as  I  do  —  how  good  and  strong  and  brave 
and  unselfish  you  are.  Oh,  try  to  love  me  a 
little ! " 

Betty  had  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  sun-dial, 
and  her  chin  on  her  hands. 

"  But  you  used  to  think  ..."  she  began. 

« Ah  —  but  I  know  better  now.  You've 
taught  me  everything.  Only  I  never  knew  it 
till  last  night  when  I  touched  you.  It  was  like 
a  spark  to  a  bonfire  that  I've  been  piling  up  ever 
since  I've  known  you.  You've  taught  me  what 
life  is,  and  love.  Love  can't  be  wrong.  It's 
only  wrong  when  it's  stealing.  We  shouldn't 
be  robbing  anybody.  We  should  both  work 
better  —  happiness  makes  people  work  —  I  see 
that  now.  I  should  have  to  give  up  parish  work 
—  but  there's  plenty  of  good  work  wants  doing. 
Why,  I've  nearly  finished  that  book  of  mine. 
I've  worked  at  it  night  after  night  —  with  the 
thought  of  you  hidden  behind  the  work.  If  you 
were  my  wife,  what  work  I  could  do !  Oh, 
Betty,  if  you  only  loved  me  ! " 

She  lifted  her  face  and  looked  at  him  gravely. 
He    flung    his    arm    round    her    shoulders    and 


THE   DUEL  247 

turned  her  face  up  to  his.  She  was  passive  to 
his  kisses.  At  last  she  kissed  him,  once,  and 
drew  herself  from  his  arms. 

"  Come,"  she  said. 

She  led  him  to  the  garden  seat  in  the  nut- 
avenue. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  when  he  had  taken  his  place 
beside  her,  "  I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  whole 
truth.  I  was  very  angry  with  you  when  you 
came  to  me  that  first  day.  You  were  quite  right. 
That  boy  had  been  holding  my  hand :  what's 
more,  he  had  been  kissing  it.  It  amused  me, 
and  if  it  hurt  him  I  didn't  care.  Then  you 
came.  And  you  said  things.  And  then  you 
said  you  weren't  afraid  of  me  or  my  weapons. 
It  was  a  challenge.  And  I  determined  to  make 
you  love  me.  It  was  all  planned,  the  helping 
in  your  work  —  and  keeping  out  of  your  way  at 
first  was  to  make  you  wish  to  see  me.  And, 
you  see,  I  succeeded.     You  did  love  me." 

"  I  do,"  he  said.  He  caught  her  hand  and 
held  it  fiercely.  "  I  deserved  it  all.  I  was  a 
brute  to  you." 

"  I  meant  you  to  love  me  —  and  you  did  love 
me.    I  lied  to  you  in  almost  everything — at  first." 


248  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  About  that  man  —  was  that  a  lie  ?  '*  he 
asked  fiercely. 

"  No,"  she  laughed  drearily.  "  That  was 
true  enough.  You  see,  it  was  more  effective 
than  any  lie  I  could  have  invented.  No  lie 
could  have  added  a  single  horror  to  that  story  ! 
And  so  I've  won  —  as  I  swore  I  would  ! " 

"  Is  that  all,"  he  said,  "  all  the  truth  ?  " 

"  It's  all  there's  any  need  for,"  she  said. 

"  I  want  it  all.  I  want  to  know  where  I 
am  —  whether  I  really  was  mad  last  night. 
Betty  —  in  spite  of  all  your  truth  I  can't  believe 
one  thing.  I  can't  believe  that  you  don't  love 
me." 

"Man's  vanity,"  she  began,  with  a  flippant 
laugh. 

"Don't!"  he  said  harshly.  "How  dare  you 
try  to  play  with  me  ?  Man's  vanity !  But  it's 
your  honour !  I  know  you  love  me.  If  you 
didn't  you  would  be  — " 

"  How  do  you  know  I'm  not  ?  " 

"  Silence,"  he  said.  "  If  you  can't  speak  the 
truth  hold  your  tongue  and  let  me  speak  it.  I 
love  you  —  and  you  love  me  —  and  we  are  going 
to  be  happy." 


THE   DUEL  249 

"I  will  speak  the  truth,"  said  Betty,  giving 
him  her  other  hand.  "  You  love  me  —  and  I 
love  you,  and  we  are  going  to  be  miserable. 
Yes  —  I  will  speak.  Dear,  I  can't  do  it.  Not 
even  for  you.  I  used  to  think  I  thought  I 
could.  I  was  bitter.  I  think  I  wanted  to  be 
revenged  on  life  and  God  and  everything.  I 
thought  I  didn't  believe  in  God,  but  I  wanted 
to  sjoite  Him  all  the  same.  But  when  you  came 
—  after  that  day  in  the  porch  —  when  you  came 
and  talked  to  me  about  all  the  good  and  beauti- 
ful things  —  why,  then  I  knew  that  I  really  did 
believe  in  them,  and  I  began  to  love  you  because 
you  had  believed  them  all  the  time,  and  because 
.  .  .  And  I  didn't  try  to  make  you  love  me  — 
after  that  day  in  the  porch  —  at  least,  not  very 
much  —  oh,  I  do  want  to  speak  the  truth !  I 
used  to  try  so  not  to  try.  I  —  I  did  want  you 
to  love  me,  though ;  I  didn't  want  you  to  love 
anyone  else.  I  wanted  you  to  love  me  just 
enough  to  make  you  happy,  and  not  enough  to 
make  you  miserable.  And  so  long  as  you  didn't 
know  you  loved  me  it  was  all  right :  and  when 
you  caught  me  last  night  I  knew  that  you 
would   know,  and  it  would  be   all    over.     You 


250  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

made  up  your  mind  to  teach  me  that  there  are 
better  things  in  the  world  than  love  —  truth  and 
honour  and  —  and  —  things  like  that.  And 
you've  taught  it  me.  It  was  a  duel,  and  you've 
won." 

"  And  you  meant  to  teach  me  that  love  is 
stronger  than  anything  in  the  world.  And  you 
have  won  too." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  we've  both  won.  That's 
the  worst  of  it  —  or  the  best." 

"  What  is  to  become  of  us  ?  "  he  said.  "  Oh, 
my  dear  —  what  are  we  to  do  ?  Do  you  forgive 
me  ?  If  you  are  right,  I  must  be  wrong  —  but 
I  can't  see  anything  now  except  that  I  w^ant 
you  so." 

"  I'm  glad  you  loved  me  enough  to  be  silly," 
she  said  ;  "  but,  oh,  my  dear,  how  glad  I  am  that 
I  love  you  too  much  to  let  you." 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  Nothing.  Don't  you  see  we've  taught 
each  other  everything  we  know.  We've  given 
each  other  everything  we  can  give.  Isn't  it 
good  to  love  like  this  —  even  if  this  has  to 
be  all  ?  " 

"  It's  all  very  difficult,"  he  said  ;  "  but  every- 


THE   DUEL  251 

thing  shall  be  as  you  choose,  only  somehow  I 
think  it's  worse  for  me  than  for  you.  I  loved 
you  before  —  and  now  I  adore  you.  I  seem  to 
have  made  a  saint  of  you  —  but  you've  made  me 
a  man." 

^  ^  T**  "W  ^R*  *W 

One  wishes  with  all  one's  heart  that  that 
lunatic  would  die.  The  situation  is,  one  would 
say  —  impossible.  Yet  the  lovers  do  not  find  it 
so.  They  work  together,  and  parish  scandal  has 
almost  ceased  to  patter  about  their  names. 
There  is  a  subtle  pleasure  for  both  in  the  cere- 
monious courtesy  with  which  ever  since  that 
day  they  treat  each  other.  It  contrasts  so 
splendidly  with  the  living  flame  upon  each 
heart-altar.  So  far  the  mutual  passion  has  im- 
proved the  character  of  each.  All  the  same,  one 
wishes  that  the  lunatic  would  die  —  for  she  is 
not  so  much  of  a  saint  as  he  thinks  her,  and  he 
is  more  of  a  man  than  she  knows. 


CINDERELLA 

"  TTOOTS  ! "  said  the  gardener,  "  there's  nae 
-L-L  sense  in't.  The  suppression  o'  the  truth's 
bad  as  a  lee.  Indeed,  I  doot  mair  hae  been 
damned  for  t'ane  than  t'ither." 

"  Law  !  Mr.  Murchison,  you  do  use  language, 
I'm  sure  ! "  tittered  the  parlourmaid. 

"  I  say  nae  mair  than  the  truth,"  he  answered, 
cutting  bloom  after  bloom  quickly  yet  tenderly. 
"  To  bring  hame  a  new  mistress  to  the  hoose 
and  never  to  tell  your  bairn  a  word  aboot  the 
matter  till  all's  made  fast  —  it's  a  thing  he'll 
hae  to  answer  for  to  his  Maker,  I'm  thinking. 
Here's  the  flowers,  wumman  ;  carry  them  canny. 
I'll  send  the  lad  up  wi'  the  lave  o'  the  flowers 
an'  a  bit  green  stuff  in  a  wee  meenit.  And  mind 
you  your  flaunting  streamers  agin  the  pots." 

The  parlourmaid  gathered  her  skirts  closely, 
and  delicately  tip-toed  to  the  door  of  the  hot- 
house.      Here    she    took    the   basket    of   bright 

253 


254  '       THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

beauty  from  his  hand  and  walked  away  across 
the  green  blaze  of  the  lawn. 

Mr.  Murchison  grunted  relief.  He  was  not 
fond  of  parlourmaids,  no  matter  how  pretty  and 
streamered. 

He  left  the  hot,  sweet  air  of  the  big  hothouse 
and  threaded  his  way  among  the  glittering 
glasshouses  to  the  potting-shed.  At  its  door 
a  sound  caught  his  ear. 

"  Hoots ! "  he  said  again,  but  this  time  with 
a  gentle,  anxious  intonation. 

"  Eh  !  ma  lammie,"  said  he,  stepping  quickly 
forward,  "what  deevilment  hae  ye  been  after 
the  noo,  and  wha  is't's  been  catching  ye  at  it  ?  " 

The  "  lammie "  crept  out  from  under  the 
potting-shelf ;  a  pair  of  small  arms  went  round 
Murchison's  legs,  and  a  little  face,  round  and 
red  and  very  dirty,  was  lifted  towards  his.  He 
raised  the  child  in  his  arms  and  set  her  on  the 
shelf,  so  that  she  could  lean  her  flushed  face  on 
his  shirt-front. 

"  Toots,  toots  !  "  said  he,  "  noo  tell  me  —  " 

"  It  isn't  true,  is  it  ?  "  said  the  child. 

"  Hoots ! "  said  Murchison  for  the  third  time, 
but  he  said  it  under  his  breath.     Aloud  he  said  — 


CINDERELLA  255 

"  Tell  old  Murchison  a'  aboot  it,  Miss  Charling, 
dearie." 

"  It  was  when  I  wanted  some  more  of  the 
strawberries,"  she  began,  with  another  sob,  "  and 
the  new  cook  said  not,  and  I  was  a  greedy  little 
pig :  and  I  said  I'd  rather  be  a  greedy  little  pig 
than  a  spiteful  old  cat !  "  The  tears  broke  out 
afresh. 

"  And  you  eight  past !  Ye  should  hae  mair 
sense  at  siccan  age  than  to  ca'  names."  The 
head  gardener  spoke  reprovingly,  but  he  stroked 
her  rough  hair. 

"  I  didn't  —  not  one  single  name  —  not  even 
when  she  said  I  was  enough  to  make  a  cat  laugh, 
even  an  old  one  —  and  she  wondered  any  good 
servant  ever  stayed  a  week  in  the  place." 

"  And  what  was  ye  sayin'  ?  " 

"  I  said,  «  Guid  ye  may  be,  but  ye're  no  bonny  ' 
—  I've  heard  you  say  that,  Murchison,  so  I  know 
it  wasn't  wrong,  and  then  she  said  I  was  a  minx, 
and  other  things,  and  I  wanted  keeping  in  order, 
and  it  was  a  very  good  thing  I  had  a  new  mamma 
coming  home  to-day,  to  keep  me  under  a  bit,  and 
a  lot  more  —  and  —  and  things  about  my  own, 
own  mother,  and  that  father  wouldn't  love  me 


256  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

any  more.  But  it's  not  true,  is  it  ?  Oh  !  it  isn't 
true  ?     She  only  just  said  it  ?  " 

"  Ma  lammie,"  said  he  gravely,  kissing  the  top 
of  the  head  nestled  against  him,  "  it's  true  that 
yer  guid  feyther,  wha'  never  crossed  ye  except 
for  yer  ain  sake  syne  the  day  ye  v^ere  born,  is 
bringing  hame  a  guid  wife  the  day,  but  ye  mun 
be  a  wumman  and  no  cry  oot  afore  ye're  hurted. 
I'll  be  bound  it's  a  kind,  genteel  lady  he's  got, 
that'll  love  ye,  and  mak'  much  o'  ye,  and  teach 
ye  to  sew  fine  —  aye,  an'  play  at  the  piano  as 
like's  no." 

The  child's  mouth  tightened  resentfully,  but 
Murchison  did  not  see  it. 

"  Noo,  ye'll  jest  be  a  douce  lassie,"  he  went  on, 
"  and  say  me  fair  that  ye'll  never  gie  an  unkind 
word  tae  yer  feyther's  new  lady.  Noo,  promise 
me  that,  an'  fine  I  ken  ye'll  keep  tae  it." 

"No,  I  won't  say  anything  unkind  to  her," 
she  answered,  and  Murchison  hugged  himself  on 
a  victory,  for  a  promise  was  sacred  to  Charling. 
He  did  not  notice  the  child's  voice  as  she  gave  it. 

When  the  tears  were  quite  dried  he  gave  her 
a  white  geranium  to  plant  in  her  own  garden, 
and  went  back  to  his  work. 


CINDERELLA  267 

Charling  took  the  geranium  with  pretty  thanks 
and  kisses,  but  she  felt  it  a  burden,  none  the  less. 
For  her  mind  was  quite  made  up.  When  she 
had  promised  never  to  say  anything  unkind  to 
her  "  father's  new  lady,"  she  meant  to  keep  the 
promise — by  never  speaking  to  her  or  seeing  her 
at  all.  She  meant  to  run  away.  How  could  she 
bear  to  be  "kept  under"  by  this  strange  lady, 
who  would  come  and  sit  in  her  own  mother's 
place,  and  wear  her  own  mother's  clothes,  and  no 
doubt  presently  burn  her  own  mother's  picture, 
and  make  Charling  wash  the  dishes  and  sweep 
the  kitchen  like  poor  dear  Cinderella  in  the 
story  ?  True,  Cinderella's  misfortunes  ended  in 
marriage  with  a  prince,  but  then  Charling  did  not 
want  to  be  married,  and  she  had  but  little  faith 
in  princes,  and,  besides,  she  had  no  fairy  god- 
mother. Her  godmother  was  dead,  her  own,  own 
mother  was  dead,  and  only  father  was  left ;  and 
now  he  had  done  this  thing,  and  he  would  not 
want  his  Charling  any  more. 

So  Charling  went  indoors  and  washed  her 
face  and  hands  and  smoothed  her  hair,  which 
never  would  be  smoothed,  put  a  few  treasures 
in  her  pocket  —  all  her  money,  some    coloured 


258  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

chalks,  a  stone  with  crystal  inside  that  showed 
where  it  was  broken,  and  went  quietly  out  at 
the  lodge  gate,  carrying  the  white  geranium  in 
her  arms,  because  when  you  are  running  away 
you  cannot  possibly  leave  behind  you  the  last 
gift  of  somebody  who  loves  you.  But  the  gera- 
nium in  its  pot  was  very  heavy  —  and  it  seemed 
to  get  heavier  and  heavier  as  she  walked  along 
the  dry,  dusty  road,  so  that  presently  Charling 
turned  through  the  swing  gate  into  the  field- 
way,  for  the  sake  of  the  shadow  of  the  hedge ; 
and  the  field-way  led  past  the  church,  and  when 
she  reached  the  low,  mossy  wall  of  the  church- 
yard, she  set  the  pot  on  it  and  rested.  Then  she 
said  — 

"  I  think  I  will  leave  it  with  mother  to  take 
care  of."  So  she  took  the  pot  in  her  hands 
again  and  carried  it  to  her  mother's  grave.  Of 
course,  they  had  told  Charling  that  her  mother 
was  an  angel  now  and  was  not  in  the  church- 
yard at  all,  but  in  heaven  ;  only  heaven  was  a 
very  long  way  off,  and  Charling  preferred  to 
think  that  mother  was  only  asleep  under  the 
green  counterpane  with  the  daisies  on  it.  There 
had  been  a  green  coverlet  to  the  bed  in  mother's 


CINDERELLA  259 

room,  only  it  had  white  lilac  on  it,  and  not 
daisies.  So  Charling  set  down  the  pot,  and  she 
knelt  down  beside  it,  and  wrote  on  it  with  a 
piece  of  blue  chalk  from  her  pocket :  "  From 
Charling  to  mother  to  take  care  ofP  Then  she 
cried  a  little  bit  more,  because  she  was  so  sorry 
for  herself ;  and  then  she  smelt  the  thyme  and 
wondered  why  the  bees  liked  it  better  than 
white  geraniums ;  and  then  she  felt  that  she 
was  very  like  a  little  girl  in  a  book,  and  so  she 
forgot  to  cry,  and  told  herself  that  she  was  the 
third  sister  going  out  to  seek  her  fortune. 

After  that  it  was  easy  to  go  on,  especially 
when  she  had  put  the  crystal  stone,  which  hung 
heavy  and  bumpy  in  the  pocket,  beside  the  gera- 
nium pot.     Then  she  kissed  the  tombstone  where 

it  said,  "Helen,  beloved  wife  of "  and  went 

away  among  the  green  graves  in  the  sunshine. 

Mother  had  died  when  she  was  only  five,  so 
that  she  could  not  remember  her  very  well ;  but 
all  these  three  years  she  had  loved  and  thought 
of  a  kind,  beautiful  Something  that  was  never 
tired  and  never  cross,  and  always  ready  to  kiss 
and  love  and  forgive  little  girls,  however  naughty 
they  were,  and  she  called  this  something  "mother" 


260  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

in  her  heart,  and  it  was  for  this  something  that 
she  left  her  kisses  on  the  gravestone.  And  the 
gravestone  was  warm  to  her  lips  as  she  kissed  it. 

^  "fF  Tp  tP  ^  ^ 

It  was  on  a  wide,  furze-covered  down,  across 
which  a  white  road  wound  like  a  twisted  ribbon, 
that  Charling's  courage  began  to  fail  her.  The 
white  road  looked  so  very  long ;  there  were  no 
houses  anywhere,  and  no  trees,  only  far  away 
across  the  down  she  saw  the  round  tops  of  some 
big  elms.  "  They  look  like  cabbages,"  she  said 
to  herself. 

She  had  w^alked  quite  a  long  way,  and  she 
was  very  tired.  Her  dinner  of  sweets  and  stale 
cakes  from  the  greeny-glass  bottles  in  the  win- 
dow of  a  village  shop  had  not  been  so  nice  as 
she  expected ;  the  woman  at  the  shop  had  been 
cross  because  Charling  had  no  pennies,  only  the 
five-shilling  piece  father  had  given  her  when  he 
went  away,  and  the  woman  had  no  change.  And 
she  had  scolded  so  that  Charling  had  grown 
frightened  and  had  run  away,  leaving  the  big, 
round  piece  of  silver  on  the  dirty  little  counter. 
This  was  about  the  time  when  she  was  missed  at 
home,  and  the  servants  began  to  search  for  her. 


CINDERELLA  261 

running  to  and  fro  like  ants  whose  nest  is  turned 
up  by  the  spade. 

A  big  furze  bush  cast  a  ragged  square  yard 
of  alluring  shade  on  the  common.  Charling 
flung  herself  down  on  the  turf  in  the  shadow. 
"  I  wonder  what  they  are  doing  at  home  ?  "  she 
said  to  herself  after  a  while.  "  I  don't  suppose 
they've  even  missed  me.  They  think  of  nothing 
but  making  the  place  all  flowery  for  her  to  see. 
Nobody  wants  me  —  " 

At  home  they  were  dragging  the  ornamental 
water  in  the  park ;  old  Murchison  directing  the 
operation  with  tears  running  slow  and  unre- 
garded down  his  face. 

Charling  lay  and  looked  at  the  white  road. 
Somebody  must  go  along  it  presently.  Roads 
were  made  for  people  to  go  along.  Then  when 
any  people  came  by  she  would  speak  to  them, 
and  they  would  help  her  and  tell  her  what  to 
do.  "  I  wonder  what  a  girl  ought  to  do  when 
she  runs  away  from  home  ? "  said  Charling  to 
herself.  "  Boys  go  to  sea,  of  course  ;  but  I  don't 
suppose  a  pirate  would  care  about  engaging  a 
cabin-girl  — "  She  fell  a-musing,  however,  on 
the  probable   woes   of  possible  cabin-girls,   and 


262  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

their  chances  of  becoming  admirals,  as  cabin- 
boys  always  did  in  the  stories ;  and  so  deep 
were  her  musings  that  she  positively  jumped 
when  a  boy,  passing  along  the  road,  began  sud- 
denly to  whistle.  It  was  the  air  of  a  comic 
song,  in  a  minor  key,  and  its  inflections  were 
those  of  a  funeral  march.  It  went  to  Charling's 
heart.  Now  she  knew,  as  she  had  never  known 
before,  how  lonely  and  miserable  she  was. 

She  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  called  out,  "  Hi ! 
you  boy ! " 

The  boy  also  jumped.  But  he  stopped  and 
said,  "  Well  ? "  though  in  a  tone  that  promised 
little. 

"  Come  here,"  said  Charling.  "  At  least,  of 
course,  I  mean  come,  if  you  please." 

The  boy  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  came 
towards  her. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  said  again,  very  grumpily.  Char- 
ling  thought ;  so  she  said,  "  Don't  be  cross.  I 
wish  you'd  talk  to  me  a  little,  if  you  are  not  too 
busy.     If  you  please,  I  mean,  of  course." 

She  said  it  with  her  best  company  manner, 
and  the  boy  laughed,  not  unkindly,  but  still  in 
a  grudging  way.     Then  he  threw  himself  down 


CINDERELLA  263 

on  the  turf  and  began  pulling  bits  of  it  up  by 
the  roots.     "  Go  ahead  !  "  said  he. 

But  Charling  could  not  go  ahead.  She  looked 
at  his  handsome,  sulky  face,  his  knitted  brow, 
twisted  into  fretful  lines,  and  the  cloud  behind 
his  blue  eyes  frightened  her. 

''  Oh  !  go  away  !  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  want 
you !     Go  away  ;  you're  very  unkind  !  " 

The  boy  seemed  to  shake  himself  awake  at 
the  sight  of  the  tears  that  rushed  to  follow  her 
words. 

"I  say,  don't-you-know,  I  say;"  but  Charling 
had  flung  herself  face  down  on  the  turf  and  took 
no  notice. 

"  I  say,  look  here,"  he  said  ;  "  I  am  not  unkind, 
really.  I  was  in  an  awful  wax  about  something 
else,  and  I  didn't  understand.  Oh  !  drop  it.  I 
say,  look  here,  what's  the  matter  ?  I'm  not  such 
a  bad  sort,  really.  Come,  kiddie,  what's  the 
row  ?  " 

He  dragged  himself  on  knees  and  elbows  to 
her  side  and  began  to  pat  her  on  the  back,  with 
some  energy  :  "  There,  there,"  he  said ;  "  don't 
cry,  there's  a  dear.  Here,  I've  got  a  handker- 
chief, as  it  happens,"  for  Charling  was  feeling 


264  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

blindly  and  vainly  among  the  coloured  chalks. 
He  thrust  the  dingy  handkerchief  into  her  hands, 
and  she  dried  her  eyes,  still  sobbing. 

"  That's  the  style,"  said  he.  "  Look  here,  we're 
like  people  in  a  book.  Two  travellers  in  mis- 
fortune meet  upon  a  wild  moor  and  exchange 
narratives.     Come,  tell  me  what's  up  ?  " 

"  You  tell  first,"  said  Charling,  rubbing  her 
eyes  very  hard  ;  "  but  swear  eternal  friendship 
before  you  begin,  then  we  can't  tell  each  other's 
secrets  to  the  enemy." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  nascent  approval. 
She  understood  how  to  play,  then,  this  forlorn 
child  in  the  torn  white  frock. 

He  took  her  hand  and  said  solemnly  — 

"  I  swear." 

"  Your  name,"  she  interrupted.  "  I,  N  or  M, 
swear,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Well,  I,  Harry  Basingstoke,  swear 
to  you  —  " 

"Charling,"  she  interpolated;  "the  other 
names    don't    matter.     I've    got    six    of    them." 

"  That  we  will  support  —  no,  maintain  — 
eternal  friendship." 

"And  I,  Charling,  swear  the  same  to  you, 
Harry." 


CINDERELLA  265 

«  Why  do  they  call  you  Charling  ?  " 

"  Oh !  because  my  name's  Charlotte,  and 
mother  used  to  sing  a  song  about  Charlie  being 
her  darling,  and  I  was  her  darling,  only  I  couldn't 
speak  properly  then ;  and  I  got  it  mixed  up  into 
Charling,  father  says.  But  let's  go  on.  Tell 
me  your  sad  history,  poor  fellow-wanderer." 

"  My  father  was  a  king,"  said  Harry  gravely ; 
but  Charling  turned  such  sad  eyes  on  him  that 
he  stopped. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  the  real  true  truth  ?  "  she 
said.     "  I  will  you." 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  the  real  true  truth  is,  Char- 
ling, IVe  run  away  from  home,  and  I'm  going  to 
sea." 

Charling  clapped  her  hands.  "  Oh  !  so  have 
I !  So  am  I !  Let  me  come  with  you.  Would 
they  take  a  cabin-girl  on  the  ship  where  you're 
going  to,  do  you  think  ?  And  why  did  you  run 
away  ?  Did  they  beat  you  and  starve  you  at 
home  ?  Or  have  you  a  cruel  stepmother,  or  step- 
father, or  something  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  he  grimly ;  "  I  haven't  any  step- 
relations,  and  I'm  jolly  well  not  going  to  have 
any,  either.     I  ran  away  because  I  didn't  choose 


^66  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

to  have  a  strange  chap  set  over  me,  and  that's 
all  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  But  about  you  ? 
How  far  have  you  come  to-day  ?  " 

"About  ninety  miles,  I  should  think,"  said 
Charling;  "at  least,  my  legs  feel  exactly  like 
that." 

"  And  v^hat  made  you  do  such  a  silly  thing  ? " 
he  said,  smiling  at  her,  and  she  thought  his  blue 
eyes  looked  quite  different  now,  so  that  she  did  not 
mind  his  calling  her  silly.  "  You  know,  it's  no 
good  girls  running  away ;  they  always  get  caught, 
and  then  they  put  them  into  convents  or  some- 
thing." 

She  slipped  her  hand  confidingly  under  his 
arm,  and  put  her  head  against  the  sleeve  of  his 
Norfolk  jacket. 

"  Not  girls  with  eternal  friends,  they  don't," 
she  said.  "  You'll  take  care  of  me  now  ?  You 
won't  let  them  catch  me  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  why  you  did  it,  then." 

Charling  told  him  at  some  length. 

"  And  father  never  told  me  a  word  about  it," 
she  ended ;  "  and  I  wasn't  going  to  stay  to  be 
made  to  wash  the  dishes  and  things,  like  Cinder- 
ella.    I  wouldn't  stand  that,  not  if  I  had  to  run 


CINDERELLA  267 

away  every  day  for  a  year.  Besides,  nobody 
wants  me  ;  nobody  will  miss  me." 

This  was  about  the  time  when  they  found  the 
white  geranium  in  the  churchyard,  and  began  to 
send  grooms  about  the  country  on  horses.  And 
Murchison  was  striding  about  the  lanes  gnawing 
his  grizzled  beard  and  calling  on  his  God  to  take 
him,  too,  if  harm  had  come  to  the  child. 

"  But  perhaps  the  stepmother  would  be  nice," 
the  boy  said. 

"  Not  she.  Stepmothers  never  are.  I  know 
just  what  she'll  be  like  —  a  horrid  old  hag  with 
red  hair  and  a  hump ! " 

"  Then  you've  not  seen  her?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  might  have  waited  till  you  had." 

"  It  would  have  been  too  late  then,"  said  Char- 
ling  tragically. 

"  But  your  father  wouldn't  have  let  you  be 
treated  unkindly,  silly." 

"  Fathers  generally  die  when  the  stepmother 
comes ;  or  else  they  can't  help  themselves.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  I  suppose  your  father  is  a  good  sort  ?  " 

"  He's  the  best  man  there  is,"  said  Charling 


268  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

indignantly,  "and  the  kindest  and  bravest,  and 
cleverest  and  amusingest,  and  he  can  sit  any 
horse  like  wax ;  and  he  can  fence  with  real 
swords,  and  sing  all  the  songs  in  all  the  world. 
There  ! " 

Harry  was  silent,  racking  his  brain  for  argu- 
ments. 

"  Look  here,  kiddie,"  he  said  slowly,  "  if  your 
father's  such  a  good  sort,  he'd  have  more  sense 
than  to  choose  a  stepmother  who  wasn't  nice. 
He's  a  much  finer  chap  than  the  fathers  in  fairy 
tales.  You  never  read  of  tliem  being  able  to  do 
all  the  things  your  father  can  do." 

"  No,"  said  Charling,  "  that's  true." 

"  He's  sure  to  have  chosen  someone  quite  jolly, 
really,"  Harry  went  on,  more  confidently. 

Charling  looked  up  suddenly.  "  Who  was  it 
chose  the  chap  that  you  weren't  going  to  stand 
having  set  over  you  ?  "  she  said. 

The  boy  bit  his  lip. 

"  I  swore  eternal  friendship,  so  I  can  never  tell 
your  secrets,  you  know,"  said  Charling  softly, 
"  and  Pve  told  you  every  single  thing." 

"  Well,  it's  my  sister,  then,"  said  he  abruptly, 
"  and  she's  married  a  chap  I've  never  seen  —  and 


CINDERELLA  269 

I'm  to  go  and  live  with  them,  if  you  please ;  and 
she  told  me  once  she  was  never  going  to  marry, 
and  it  was  always  going  to  be  just  us  two  ;  and 
now  she's  found  this  fellow  she  knew  when  she 
was  a  little  girl,  and  he  was  a  boy  —  as  it  might 
be  us,  you  know  —  and  she's  forgotten  all  about 
what  she  said,  and  married  him.  And  I  wasn't 
even  asked  to  the  beastly  wedding  because  they 
wanted  to  be  married  quietly ;  and  they  came 
home  from  their  hateful  honeymoon  this  evening, 
and  the  holidays  begin  to-day,  and  I  was  to  go 
to  this  new  chap's  house  to  spend  them.  And  I 
only  got  her  letter  this  morning,  and  I  just  took 
my  journey  money  and  ran  away.  My  boxes 
were  sent  on  straight  from  school,  though  —  so 
I've  got  no  clothes  but  these.  I'm  just  going  to 
look  at  the  place  where  she's  to  live,  and  then 
I'm  off  to  sea." 

"  Why  didn't  she  tell  you  before  ?  " 
"  She  says  she  meant  it  to  be  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise, because  we've  been  rather  hard  up  since 
my  father  died,  and  this  chap's  got  horses  and 
everything,  and  she  says  he's  going  to  adopt  me. 
As  if  I  wanted  to  be  adopted  by  any  old  stuck-up 
money-grubber ! " 


270  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

"But  you  haven't  seen  him,"  said  Charling 
gently.     "  If  Pm  silly,  you  are  too,  aren't  you  ?  " 

She  hid  her  face  on  her  sleeve  to  avoid  seeing 
the  effect  of  this  daring  shot.  Only  silence 
answered  her. 

Presently  Harry  said  — 

"  Now,  kiddie,  let  me  take  you  home,  will 
you?  Give  the  stepmother  a  fair  show,  any- 
how." 

Charling  reflected.  She  was  very  tired.  She 
stroked  Harry's  hand  absently,  and  after  a  while 
said  — 

"  I  will  if  you  will." 

«  Will  what  ?  " 

"  Go  back  and  give  your  chap  a  fair  show." 

And  now  the  boy  reflected. 

"  Done,"  he  said  suddenly.  "  After  all,  what's 
sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the  gander. 
Come  on." 

He  stood  up  and  held  out  his  hand.  This 
was  about  the  time  when  the  cook  packed  her 
box  and  went  off,  leaving  it  to  be  sent  after  her. 
Public  opinion  in  the  servants'  hall  was  too 
strong  to  be  longer  faced. 

The  shadows  of  the  trees  lay  black  and  level 


CINDERELLA  271 

across  the  pastures  when  the  two  children 
reached  the  lodge  gates.  A  floral  arch  was 
above  the  gate,  and  wreaths  of  flowers  and  flags 
made  the  avenue  gay.  Charling  had  grown  very 
tired,  and  Harry  had  carried  her  on  his  back  for 
the  last  mile  or  two  —  resting  often,  because 
Charling  was  a  strong,  healthy  child,  and,  as  he 
phrased  it,  "  no  slouch  of  a  weight." 

Now  they  paused  at  the  gate  of  the  lodge. 

"  This  is  my  house,"  said  Charling.  "  They've 
put  all  these  things  up  for  lier^  I  suppose.  If 
you'll  write  down  your  address  I'll  give  you 
mine,  and  we  can  write  and  tell  each  other 
what  they  are  like  afterwards.  I've  got  a  bit 
of  chalk  somewhere." 

She  fumbled  in  the  dusty  confusion  of  her 
little  pocket  while  Harry  found  the  envelope  of 
his  sister's  letter  and  tore  it  in  two.  Then,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  lodge  gate-post,  the  children 
wrote,  slowly  and  carefully,  for  some  moments. 
Presently  they  exchanged  papers,  and  each  read 
the  words  written  by  the  other.  Then  sud- 
denly both  turned  very  red. 

"  But  this  is  my  address,"  said  she.  "  The 
Grange,  Falconbridge." 


272  THE    LITERARY    SENSE 

"  It's  where  my  sister's  gone  to  live,  anyhow," 
said  he. 

u  Then  —  then  —  " 

Conviction  forced  itself  first  on  the  boy. 

"  What  a  duifer  I've  been !  It's  Mm  she's 
married." 

"  Your  sister  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Are  you  sure  your  father's  a  good 
sort  ?  " 

"  How  dare  you  ask  !  "  said  Charling.  "  It's 
your  sister  I  want  to  know  about." 

"  She's  the  dearest  old  darling ! "  he  cried. 
"  Oh !  kiddie,  come  along ;  run  for  all  you're 
worth,  and  perhaps  we  can  get  in  the  back  way, 
and  get  tidied  up  before  they  come,  and  they 
need  never  know." 

He  held  out  his  hand ;  Charling  caught  at  it, 
and  together  they  raced  up  the  avenue.  But 
getting  in  the  back  way  was  impossible,  for 
Murchison  met  them  full  on  the  terrace,  and 
Charling  ran  straight  into  his  arms.  There 
should  have  been  scolding  and  punishment,  no 
doubt,  but  Charling  found  none. 

And,  now,  who  so  sleek  and  demure  as  the 
runaways,  he  in  Eton  jacket  and  she  in  spotless 


CINDERELLA  273 

white  muslin,  when  the  carriage  drew  up  in 
front  of  the  hall,  amid  the  cheers  of  the  tenants 
and  the  bowing  of  the  orderly,  marshalled 
servants  ? 

And  then  a  lady,  pretty  as  a  princess  in  a  fairy 
tale,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  Harry's,  was  hugging 
him  and  Charling  both  at  once  ;  while  a  man, 
whom  Harry  at  once  owned  to  he  a  man,  stood 
looking  at  the  group  with  grave,  kind  eyes. 

"  We'll  never,  never  tell,"  whispered  the  boy. 
The  servants  had  been  sworn  to  secrecy  by 
Murchison. 

Charling  whispered  back,  "  Never  as  long  as 
we  live." 

But  long  before  bedtime  came  each  of  the 
runaways  felt  that  concealment  was  foolish  in 
the  face  of  the  new  circumstances,  and  with 
some  embarrassment,  a  tear  or  two,  and  a  little 
gentle  laughter,  the  tale  was  told. 

"  Oh,  Harry  !  how  could  you  ?  "  said  the  step- 
mother, and  went  quietly  out  by  the  long  window 
with  her  arm  round  her  brother's  shoulders. 

Charling  was  left  alone  with  her  father. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  father  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  had,  childie  ;  but  I  thought  —  you 


274  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

see  —  I  was  going  away  —  I  didn't  want  to 
leave  you  alone  for  a  fortnight  to  think  all  sorts 
of  nonsense.  And  I  thought  my  little  girl  could 
trust  me."  Charling  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 
"  Well  !  it's  all  right  now !  don't  cry,  my  girlie." 
He  drew  her  close  to  him. 

"  And  you'll  love  Harry  very  much  ?  " 

"  I  will.     He  brought  you  back." 

"  And  I'll  love  her  very  much.  So  that's  all 
settled,"  said  Charling  cheerfully.  Then  her 
face  fell  again.  "  But,  father,  don't  you  love 
mother  any  more  ?     Cook  said  you  didn't." 

He  sighed  and  was  silent.  At  last  he  said, 
"  You  are  too  little  to  understand,  sweetheart. 
I  have  loved  the  lady  who  came  home  to-day  all 
my  life  long,  and  I  shall  love  your  mother  as 
long  as  I  live." 

"  Cook  said  it  was  like  being  unkind  to  mother. 
Does  mother  mind  about  it,  really  ?  " 

He  muttered  something  inaudible  —  to  the 
cook's  address. 

"  I  don't  think  they  either  of  them  mind,  my 
darling  Charling,"  he  said.  ^'  You  cannot  under- 
stand it,  but  I  think  they  both  understand." 


WITH   AN   E 

SHE  had  been  thinking  of  him  all  day  —  of 
the  incredible  insignificance  of  the  point  on 
which  they  had  quarrelled ;  the  babyish  folly  of 
the  quarrel  itself,  the  silly  pride  that  had  made 
the  quarrel  strong  till  the  very  memory  of  it  was 
as  a  bar  of  steel  to  keep  them  apart.  Three 
years  ago,  and  so  much  had  happened  since  then. 
Three  years !  and  not  a  day  of  them  all  had 
passed  without  some  thought  of  him ;  some- 
times a  happy,  quiet  remembrance  transfigured 
by  a  wise  forgetfulness ;  sometimes  a  sudden 
recollection,  sharp  as  a  knife.  But  not  on  many 
days  had  she  allowed  the  quiet  remembrance  to 
give  place  to  the  knife-thrust,  and  then  kept  the 
knife  in  the  wound,  turning  it  round  with  a  sci- 
entific curiosity,  which,  while  it  ran  an  under- 
current of  breathless  pleasure  beneath  the  pain, 
yet  did  not  lessen  this  —  intensified  it,  rather. 
To-day  she  had  thought  of  him  thus  through  the 
long  hours  on  deck,  when  the  boat  sped  on  even 

275 


276  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

keel  across  the  blue  and  gold  of  the  Channel,  in 
the  dusty  train  from  Ostend  —  even  in  the  little 
open  carriage  that  carried  her  and  her  severely 
moderate  luggage  from  the  station  at  Bruges  to 
the  H6tel  du  Panier  d'Or.  She  had  thought  of 
him  so  much  that  it  was  no  surprise  to  her  to  see 
him  there,  drinking  coffee  at  one  of  the  little 
tables  w^hich  the  hotel  throv^s  out  like  tentacles 
into  the  Grande  Place. 

There  he  sat,  in  a  grey  flannel  suit.  His  back 
was  towards  her,  but  she  would  have  known  the 
set  of  his  shoulders  anywhere,  and  the  turn  of 
his  head.  He  was  talking  to  someone  —  a  lady, 
handsome,  but  older  than  he  —  oh !  evidently 
much  older. 

Elizabeth  made  the  transit  from  carriage  to 
hotel  door  in  one  swift,  quiet  movement.  He  did 
not  see  her,  but  the  lady  facing  him  put  up  a  tor- 
toiseshell-handled  lorgnon  and  gazed  through  it 
and  through  narrowed  eyelids  at  the  new  comer. 

Elizabeth  reappeared  no  more  that  evening. 
It  was  the  waiter  who  came  out  to  dismiss  the 
carriage  and  superintend  the  bringing  in  of  the 
luggage.  Elizabeth,  stumbling  in  a  maze  of  for- 
gotten French,  was  met  at  the  stair-foot   by  a 


WITH  AN   E  277 

smiling  welcome,  and  realised  in  a  spasm  of 
grateful  surprise  that  she  need  not  have  brought 
her  dictionary.  The  hostess  of  the  "  Panier 
d'Or,"  like  everyone  else  in  Belgium,  spoke  Eng- 
lish, and  an  English  far  better  than  Elizabeth's 
French  had  been. 

She  secured  a  tiny  bedroom,  and  a  sitting- 
room  that  looked  out  over  the  Place,  so  that 
v^henever  he  drank  coifee  she  might,  with  luck, 
hope  to  see  the  back  of  his  dear  head. 

"  Idiot !  "  said  Elizabeth,  catching  this  little 
thought  wandering  in  her  mind,  and  with  that 
she  slapped  the  little  thought  and  put  it  away  in 
disgrace.  But  when  she  woke  in  the  night,  it 
woke,  too,  and  cried  a  little. 

That  night  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would 
have  all  her  meals  served  in  the  little  sitting- 
room,  and  never  go  downstairs  at  all,  lest  she 
should  meet  him.  But  in  the  morning  she  per- 
ceived that  one  does  not  save  up  one's  money  for 
a  year  in  order  to  have  a  Continental  holiday, 
and  sweeten  all  one's  High-school  teaching  with 
one  thought  of  that  holiday,  in  order  to  spend 
its  precious  hours  between  four  walls,  just  be- 
cause —  well,  for  any  reason  whatsoever. 


278  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

So  she  went  down  to  take  her  coffee  and  rolls 
humbly,  publicly,  like  other  people. 

The  dining-room  was  dishevelled,  discomposed  ; 
chairs  piled  on  tables  and  brooms  all  about.  It 
was  in  the  hotel  cafe^  where  the  marble-topped 
little  tables  were,  that  Mademoiselle  would  be 
served.  Here  was  a  marble-topped  counter,  too, 
where  later  in  tlie  day  aperitifs  and  petits  verres 
would  be  handed.  On  this,  open  for  the  police 
to  read,  lay  the  list  of  those  who  had  spent  the 
night  at  the  "  Panier  d'Or." 

The  room  was  empty.  Elizabeth  caught  up 
the  list.  Yes,  his  name  was  there,  at  the  very 
top  of  the  column  —  Edward  Brown,  and  below 
it  "  Mrs.  Brown  —  " 

Elizabeth  dropped  the  paper  as  though  it  had 
bitten  her,  and,  turning  sharply,  came  face  to 
face  with  that  very  Edward  Brown.  He  raised 
his  hat  gravely,  and  a  shiver  of  absolute  sickness 
passed  over  her,  for  his  glance  at  her  in  passing 
was  the  glance  of  a  stranger.  It  was  not  possi- 
ble. .  .  .  Yet  it  was  true.  He  had  forgotten  her. 
In  three  little  years  !  They  had  been  long  enough 
years  to  her,  but  now  she  called  them  little.  In 
three  little  years  he  had  forgotten  her  very  face. 


WITH   AN   E  279 

Elizabeth,  cliin  in  air,  marched  down  the  room 
and  took  possession  of  the  little  table  where  her 
coffee  waited  her. 

She  began  to  eat.  It  was  not  till  the  sixth 
mouthful  that  her  face  flushed  suddenly  to  so 
deep  a  crimson  that  she  dared  not  raise  her  eyes 
to  see  how  many  of  the  folk  now  breaking  their 
rolls  in  her  company  had  had  eyes  for  her  face. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  only  one  observed  the  sudden 
colour,  and  he  admired  and  rejoiced,  for  he  had 
seen  such  a  colour  in  that  face  before. 

"  She  is  angry  —  good  !  "  said  he,  and  poured 
out  more  coffee  with  a  steady  hand. 

The  thought  that  flooded  Elizabeth's  face  and 
neck  and  ears  with  damask  was  one  quite  incon- 
sistent with  the  calm  eating  of  bread-and-butter. 
She  laid  down  her  knife  and  w^alked  out,  chin  in 
air  to  the  last.  Alone  in  her  sitting-room  she 
buried  her  face  in  a  hard  cushion  and  went  as 
near  to  swearing  as  a  very  nice  girl  may. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  —  oh  !  hother  !  Why  did  I  go 
down  ?  I  ought  to  have  fled  to  the  uttermost 
parts  of  the  earth  :  or  even  to  Ghent.  Of  course. 
Oh,  what  a  fool  I  am  !  It's  because  he's  married 
that  he  won't  speak  to  me.     You  fool !  you  fool ! 


280  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

you  fool !  Yes,  of  course,  you  knew  he  was 
married ;  only  you  thought  you'd  like  the  silly 
satisfaction  of  hearing  his  voice  speak  to  you,  and 
yours  speaking  to  him.  But  —  oh  !  fool !  fool ! 
fool ! " 

Elizabeth  put  on  the  thickest  veil  she  had,  and 
the  largest  hat,  and  went  blindly  out.  She 
walked  very  fast,  never  giving  a  glance  to  the 
step-and-stair  gables  of  the  old  houses,  the  domi- 
nant strength  of  the  belfry,  the  curious,  un-Eng- 
lish groups  in  the  streets.  Presently  she  came 
to  a  bridge  —  a  canal  —  overhanging  houses  — 
balconies  —  a  glimpse  like  the  pictures  of  Venice. 
She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  parapet  and  pres- 
ently became  aware  of  the  prospect. 

"  It  is  pretty,"  she  said  grudgingly,  and  at  the 
same  moment  turned  away,  for  in  a  flower-hung 
balcony  across  the  water  she  saw  him. 

"  This  is  too  absurd,"  she  said.  "  I  must  get 
out  of  the  place  —  at  least,  for  the  day.  I'll  go 
to  Ghent." 

He  had  seen  her,  and  a  thrill  of  something  very 
like  gratified  vanity  straightened  his  shoulders. 
When  a  girl  has  jilted  you,  it  is  comforting  to 
find  that  even  after  three  years  she  has  not  for- 


WITH   AN   E  281 

gotten  you  enough  to  be  indifferent,  no  matter  how 
you  may  have  consoled  yourself  in  the  interval. 

Elizabeth  walked  fast,  but  she  did  not  get  to 
the  railway  station,  because  she  took  the  wroDg 
turning  several  times.  She  passed  through  street 
after  strange  street,  and  came  out  on  a  wide 
quay ;  another  canal ;  across  it  showed  old, 
gabled,  red-roofed  houses.  She  walked  on  and 
came  presently  to  a  bridge,  and  another  quay, 
and  a  little  puffing,  snorting  steamboat. 

She  hurriedly  collected  a  few  scattered  items 
of  her  school  vocabulary  — 

"  Est-ce  que  —  est-ce  que  —  ce  hateau  d  va^peur  va 
—  va  —  anywhere  ?  " 

A  voluble  assurance  that  it  went  at  twelve- 
thirty  did  not  content  her.  She  gathered  her 
forces  again. 

"  Oui  ^  7nais  oil  est-ce  quHl  va  alter — .^  " 

The  answer  sounded  something  like  "  Sloosh," 
and  the  speaker  pointed  vaguely  up  the  green 
canal. 

Elizabeth  went  on  board.  This  was  as  good 
as  Ghent.  Better.  There  was  an  element  of 
adventure  about  it.  "  Sloosh  "  might  be  any- 
where ;  one  might  not  reach  it  for  days.     But 


282  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

the  boat  had  not  the  air  of  one  used  to  long 
cruises  ;  and  Elizabeth  felt  safe  in  playing  with 
the  idea  of  an  expedition  into  darkest  Holland. 

And  now  by  chance,  or  because  her  move- 
ments interested  him  as  much  as  his  presence 
repelled  her,  this  same  Edward  Brown  also  came 
on  board,  and,  concealed  by  the  deep  day-dream 
into  wdiich  she  had  fallen,  passed  her  unseen. 

When  she  shook  the  last  drops  of  the  day- 
dream from  her,  she  found  herself  confronting 
the  boat's  only  other  passenger  —  himself. 

She  looked  at  him  full  and  straight  in  the 
eyes,  and  with  the  look  her  embarrassment  left 
her  and  laid  hold  on  him. 

He  remembered  her  last  words  to  him  — 

"  If  ever  we  meet  again,  we  meet  as  strangers." 
Well,  he  had  kept  to  the  very  letter  of  that 
bidding,  and  she  had  been  angry.  He  had 
been  very  glad  to  see  that  she  was  angry.  But 
now,  face  to  face  for  an  hour  and  a  half  —  for 
he  knew  the  distance  to  Sluys  well  enough  — 
could  he  keep  silence  still  and  yet  avoid  being 
ridiculous  ?  He  did  not  intend  to  be  ridiculous  ; 
yet  even  this  might  have  happened.  But  Eliza- 
beth saved  him. 


WITH   AN   E  283 

She  raised  her  chin  and  spoke  in  chill,  dis- 
tant courtesy. 

"  I  think  you  must  be  English,  because  I 
saw  you  at  the  '  Panier  d'Or ' ;  everyone's 
English  there.  I  can't  make  these  people  un- 
derstand anything.  Perhaps  you  could  be  so 
kind  as  to  tell  me  how  long  the  boat  takes  to 
get  to  wherever  it  does  get  to  ?  " 

It  was  a  longer  speech  than  she  would  have 
made  had  he  been  the  stranger  as  whom  she 
proposed  to  treat  him,  but  it  was  necessary  to 
let  him  understand  at  the  outset  what  was 
the  part  she  intended  to  play. 

He  did  understand,  and  assumed  his  role 
instantly. 

"  Something  under  two  hours,  I  think,"  he 
said  politely,  still  holding  in  his  hand  the  hat 
he  had  removed  on  the  instant  of  her  break- 
ing silence.  "  How  cool  and  pleasant  the  air 
is  after  the  town ! "  The  boat  was  moving 
now  quickly  between  grassy  banks  topped  by 
rows  of  ash  trees.  The  landscape  on  each  side 
spread  away  like  a  map  intersected  with 
avenues  of  tall,  lean,  wind-bent  trees,  that 
seemed  to  move  as   the  boat  moved. 


284  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  Good ! "  said  she  to  herself ;  "  he  means  to 
talk.  We  shan't  sit  staring  at  each  other  for 
two  hours  like  stuck  pigs.  And  he  really  doesn't 
know  me  ?  Or  is  it  the  wife  ?  Oh  !  I  wish  I'd 
never  come  to  this  horrible  country  ! "  Aloud 
she  said,  "  Yes,  and  how  pretty  the  trees  and 
fields  are  —  " 

"  So  —  so  nice  and  green,  aren't  they  ?  "  said  he. 

And  she  said,  "  Yes." 

Each  inwardly  smiled.  In  the  old  days  each 
had  been  so  eager  for  the  other's  good  opinion, 
so  afraid  of  seeming  commonplace,  that  their 
conversations  had  been  all  fine  work,  and  their 
very  love-letters  too  clever  by  half.  Now  they 
did  not  belong  to  each  other  any  more,  and  he 
said  the  trees  were  green,  and  she  said  "  Yes." 

"  There  seem  to  be  a  great  many  people  in 
Bruges,"  said  she. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  eager  assent.  "Quite  a 
large  number." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  to  be  seen  in  these  old 
towns.     So  quaint,  aren't  they  ?  " 

She  remembered  his  once  condemning  in  a 
friend  the  use  of  that  word.     Now  he  echoed  it. 

"  So  very  quaint,"  said  he.     "  And  the    dogs 


WITH   AN   E  285 

drawing  carts !  Just  like  the  pictures,  aren't 
they  ?  " 

"  You  can  get  pictures  of  them  on  the  illus- 
trated post-cards.  So  nice  to  send  to  one's  rela- 
tions at  home." 

She  was  getting  angry  with  him.  He  played 
the  game  too  well. 

"Ah  !  yes,"  he  answered,  "  the  dear  people  like 
these  little  tokens,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  He's  getting  exactly  like  a  curate,"  she 
thought,  and  a  doubt  assailed  her.  Perhaps  he 
was  not  playing  the  game  at  all.  Perhaps  in 
these  three  years  he  had  really  grown  stupid. 

"  How  different  it  all  is  from  England,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Oh,  quite  !  "  said  he. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  Holland  ?  " 

"  Yes,  once." 

"  What  was  it  like  ?  "  she  asked. 

That  was  a  form  of  question  they  had  agreed 
to  hate  —  once,  long  ago. 

"  Oh,  extremely  pleasant,"  he  said  warmly. 
"  We  met  some  most  agreeable  people  at  some 
of  the  hotels.  Quite  the  best  sort  of  people,  you 
know." 


286  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

Another  phrase  once  banned  by  both. 

The  sun  sparkled  on  the  moving  duckweed  of 
the  canal.  The  sky  was  blue  overhead.  Here 
and  there  a  red-roofed  farm  showed  among  the 
green  pastures.  Ahead  the  avenues  tapered 
away  into  distance,  and  met  at  the  vanishing 
point.  Elizabeth  smiled  for  sheer  pleasure  at 
the  sight  of  two  little  blue-smocked  children 
solemnly  staring  at  the  boat  as  it  passed.  Then 
she  glanced  at  him  with  an  irritated  frown.  It 
was  his  turn  to  smile. 

"  You  called  the  tune,  my  lady,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "and  it  is  you  shall  change  it,  not  I." 

"  Foreign  countries  are  very  like  England,  are 
they  not  ?  "  he  said.  "  The  same  kind  of  trees, 
you  know,  and  the  same  kind  of  cows,  and  — 
and  everything.  Even  the  canals  are  very  like 
ours." 

"The  canal  system,"  said  Elizabeth  instruc- 
tively, "is  the  finest  in  the  world." 

^^  Adieu^  CoMal^  comard^  coMaille^''  he  quoted. 
They  had  always  barred  quotations  in  the  old 
days. 

"I  don't  understand  Latin,"  said  she.  Then 
their    eyes    met,  and    he    got    up   abru]3tly   and 


WITH   AN   E  287 

walked  to  the  end  of  the  boat  and  back.  When 
he  sat  down  again,  he  sat  beside  her. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  ?  "  he  said  quietly.  "  I  think 
it  is  your  turn  to  choose  a  subject  —  " 

"  Oh  !  have  you  read  Alice  in  Wonderlcmd  f  " 
she  said,  with  simple  eagerness.  "  Such  a  pretty 
book,  isn't  it  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  She  was  obsti- 
nate ;  all  women  were.  Men  were  not.  He 
would  be  magnanimous.  He  would  not  compel 
her  to  change  the  tune.  He  had  given  her  one 
chance ;  and  if  she  wouldn't  —  well,  it  was  not 
possible  to  keep  up  this  sort  of  conversation  till 
they  got  to  Sluys.     He  would  — 

But  again  she  saved  him. 

"  I  won't  play  any  more,"  she  said.  "  It's  not 
fair.  Because  you  may  think  me  a  fool.  But  I 
happen  to  know  that  you  are  Mr.  Brown,  who 
writes  the  clever  novels.  You  were  pointed  out 
to  me  at  the  hotel ;  and  —  oh !  do  tell  me  if  you 
always  talk  like  this  to  strangers  ?  " 

"  Only  to  English  ladies  on  canal  boats,"  said 
he,  smiling.  "  You  see,  one  never  knows.  They 
might  wish  one  to  talk  like  that.  We  both  did 
it  very  prettily.     Of   course,  more  know   Tom 


288  THE   LITERAKY   SENSE 

Fool  than  Tom  Fool  knows,  but  I  think  1  may 
congratulate  you  on  your  first  attempt  at  the 
English-abroad  conversation." 

"  Do  you  know,  really,"  she  said,  "  you  did  it 
so  well  that  if  I  hadn't  known  who  you  were,  I 
should  have  thought  it  was  the  real  you.  The 
felicitations  are  not  all  mine.  But  won't  you 
tell  me  about  Holland  ?  That  bit  of  yours 
about  the  hotel  acquaintances  was  very  brutal. 
I've  heard  heaps  of  people  say  that  very  thing. 
You  just  caught  the  tone.     But  Holland  —  " 

"  Well,  this  is  Holland,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  saw 
more  of  it  than  this,  and  I'll  tell  you  anything 
you  like  if  you  won't  expect  me  to  talk  clever, 
and  turn  the  phrase.  That's  a  lost  art,  and  I 
won't  humiliate  myself  in  trying  to  recover  it. 
To  begin  with,  Holland  is  flat." 

"  Don't  be  a  geography  book,"  Elizabeth 
laughed  light-heartedly. 

"  The  coinage  is  —  " 

"No,  but  seriously." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  and  the  talk  lasted  till 
the  little  steamer  bumped  and  grated  against  the 
quay-side  at  Sluys. 

When  they  had  landed  the  two  stood  for  a 
moment  on  the  grass-grown  quay  in  silence. 


WITH   AN   E  289 

"Well,  good  afternoon,"  said  Elizabeth  sud- 
denly. "  Thank  you  so  much  for  telling  me 
all  about  Holland."  And  with  that  she  turned 
and  walked  away  along  the  narrow  street  be- 
tween the  trim  little  houses  that  look  so  like  a 
child's  toy  village  tumbled  out  of  a  white  wood 
box.     Mr.  Edward  Brown  was  left,  planted  there. 

"  Well ! "  said  he,  and  spent  the  afternoon 
wandering  about  near  the  landing-stage,  and  won- 
dering what  would  be  the  next  move  in  this  game 
of  hers.  It  was  a  childish  game,  this  playing  at 
strangers,  yet  he  owned  that  it  had  a  charm. 

He  ate  currant  bread  and  drank  coffee  at  a 
little  inn  by  the  quay,  sitting  at  the  table  by 
the  door  and  watching  the  boats.  Two  o'clock 
came  and  went.  Four  o'clock  came,  half-past 
four,  and  with  that  went  the  last  return 
steamer  for  Bruges.  Still  Mr.  Edward  Brown 
sat  still  and  smoked.  Five  minutes  later 
Elizabeth's  blue  cotton  dress  gleamed  in  the 
sunlight  at  the  street  corner. 

He  rose  and  walked  towards  her. 

"  I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  yourself  in  Holland," 
he  said. 

"  I  lost  my  way,"  said  she.     He  saw  that  she 


290  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

was  very  tired,  even  before  he  heard  it  in  her 
voice.     "  When  is  the  next  boat  ?  " 

"There  are  no  more  boats  to-day.  The  last 
left  about  ten  minutes  ago." 

"  You  might  have  told  me,"  she  said  resent- 
fully. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he.  "  You  bade 
me  good-bye  with  an  abruptness  and  a  decision 
which  forbade  me  to  tell  you  anything." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  humbly.  "  Can 
I  get  back  by  train  ?  " 

"  There  are  no  trains." 

"  A  carriage  ?  " 

"  There  are  none.     I  have  inquired." 

"  But  you,"  she  asked  suddenly,  "  how  did 
you  miss  the  boat  ?  How  are  you  going  to  get 
back  ?  " 

"  I  shall  walk,"  said  he,  ignoring  the  first 
question.  "  It's  only  eleven  miles.  But  for  you, 
of  course,  that's  impossible.  You  might  stay 
the  night  here.  The  woman  at  this  inn  seems 
a  decent  old  person." 

"  I  can't.  There's  a  girl  coming  to  join  me. 
She's  in  the  sixth  at  the  High  School  where  I 
teach.     I've  promised  to  chaperon  and  instruct 


WITH   AN   E  291 

her.  I  must  meet  her  at  the  station  at  ten. 
She's  been  ten  years  at  the  school.  I  don't 
believe  she  knows  a  word  of  French.  Oh !  I 
must  go.  She  doesn't  know  the  name  of  my 
hotel,  or  anything.     I  must  go.     I  must  walk." 

"  Have  you  had  any  food  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  never  thought  about  it." 

She  did  not  realise  that  she  was  explaining  to 
him  that  she  had  been  walking  to  get  away 
from  him  and  from  her  own  thoughts,  and  that 
food  had  not  been  among  these. 

"  Then  you  will  dine  now ;  and,  if  you  will 
allow  me,  we  will  walk  back  together." 

Elizabeth  submitted.  It  was  pleasant  to  be 
taken  care  of.  And  to  be  "  ordered  about,"  that 
was  pleasant,  too.  Curiously  enough,  that  very 
thing  had  been  a  factor  in  the  old  quarrel.  At 
nineteen  one  is  so  independent. 

She  was  fed  on  omelettes  and  strange,  pale 
steak,  and  Mr.  Brown  insisted  on  beer.  The 
place  boasted  no   wine   cellar. 

Then  the  walk  began.  For  the  first  mile  or 
two  it  was  pleasant.  Then  Elizabeth's  shoes 
began  to  hurt  her.  They  were  smart  brown 
shoes,    with    deceitful    wooden    heels.       In    her 


292  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

wanderings  over  the  cobblestones  of  Sluys 
streets  one  heel  had  cracked  itself.  Now  it 
split  altogether.     She    began  to  limp. 

"  Won't  you  take  my  arm  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  don't  really  need  it.  I'll 
rest  a  minute,  though,  if  I  may."  She  sat  down, 
leaning  against  a  tree,  and  looked  out  at  the 
darting  swallows,  dimpling  here  and  there  the 
still  green  water.  The  level  sunlight  struck 
straight  across  the  pastures,  turning  them  to 
gold.  The  long  shadows  of  the  trees  fell  across 
the  canal  and  lay  black  on  the  reeds  at  the 
other  side.  The  hour  was  full  of  an  ample 
dignity  of  peace. 

They  walked  another  mile.  Elizabeth  could 
not  conceal  her  growing  lameness. 

"  Something  is  wrong  with  your  foot,"  said  he. 
"  Have  you  hurt  it  ?  " 

"  It's  these  silly  shoes  ;  the  heel's  broken." 

"  Take  them  off  and  let  me  see." 

She  submitted  without  a  protest,  sat  down, 
took  off  the  shoes,  and  gave  them  to  him.  He 
looked  at  them  kindly,  contemptuously. 

"  Silly  little  things  !  "  he  said,  and  she,  instead 
of  resenting  the  impertinence,  smiled. 


WITH   AN   E  293 

Then  he  tore  off  the  heels  and  dug  out  the  re- 
maining bristle  of  nails  with  his  pocket-knife. 

"  That'll  be  better,"  said  he  cheerfully.  Eliza- 
beth put  on  the  damp  shoes.  The  evening  dew 
lay  heavy  on  the  towing-path,  and  she  hardly 
demurred  at  all  to  his  fastening  the  laces.  She 
was  very  tired. 

Again  he  offered  his  arm ;  again  she  refused  it. 

Then,  "  Elizabeth,  take  my  arm  at  once  ! "  he 
said  sharply. 

She  took  it,  and  they  had  kept  step  for  some 
fifty  paces  before  she  said  — 

"  Then  you  knew  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  Am  I  blind  or  in  my  dotage  ?  But  you  for- 
bade me  to  meet  you  except  as  a  stranger.  I 
have  an  obedient  nature." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  He  held  her  hand 
against  his  side  strongly,  but,  as  it  seemed,  with- 
out sentiment.  He  was  merely  helping  a  tired 
woman-stranger  on  a  long  road.  But  the  road 
seemed  easier  to  Elizabeth  because  her  hand 
lay  so  close  to  him ;  she  almost  forgot  how  tired 
she  was,  and  lost  herself  in  dreams,  and  awoke, 
and  taught  herself  to  dream  again,  and  wondered 
why  everything  should  seem  so  different  just  be- 


294  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

cause  one's  hand  lay  on  the  sleeve  of  a  grey 
flannel  jacket. 

''  Why  should  I  be  so  abominably  happy  ? " 
she  asked  herself,  and  then  lapsed  again  into 
the  dreams  that  were  able  to  wipe  away  three 
years,  as  a  kind  hand  might  wipe  three  little 
tear-drops  from  a  child's  slate,  scrawled  over 
with  sums  done  wrong. 

When  she  remembered  that  he  was  married, 
she  salved  her  conscience  innocently.  "  After 
all,"  she  said,  "it  can't  be  wrong  if  it  doesn't 
make  liim  happy ;  and,  of  course,  he  doesn't 
care,  and  I  shall  never  see  him  again  after  to- 
night." 

So  on  they  went,  the  deepening  dusk  turned 
to  night,  and  in  Elizabeth's  dreams  it  seemed 
that  her  hand  was  held  more  closely ;  but  un- 
less one  moved  it  ever  so  little  one  could  not  be 
sure ;  and  she  would  not  move  it  ever  so  little. 

The  damp  towing-path  ended  in  a  road  cobble- 
stoned,  the  masts  of  ships,  pointed  roofs,  twin- 
kling lights.     The  eleven  miles  were  nearly  over. 

Elizabeth's  hand  moved  a  little,  involuntarily, 
on  his  arm.  To  cover  the  movement  she  spoke 
instantly. 


WITH   AN   E  295 

"  I  am  leaving  Bruges  to-morrow." 

"  No ;  your  sixth-form  girl  will  be  too  tired, 
and  besides  —  " 

"  Besides  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  thousand  things  !  Don't  leave  Bruges 
yet ;  it's  so  '  quaint,'  you  know  ;  and  —  and  I 
want  to  introduce  you  to  — " 

"I  won't,"  said  Elizabeth  almost  violently. 

"  You  won't  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  don't  want  to  know  your  wife." 

He  stopped  short  in  the  street — not  one  of 
the  "  quaint "  streets,  but  a  deserted  street  of  tall, 
square-shuttered,  stern,  dark  mansions,  wherein 
a  gas-lamp  or  two  flickered  timidly. 

"  My  wife  f  "  he  said  ;  "  it's  my  aunV 

"  It  said  « Mrs.  Brown '  in  the  visitors'  list," 
faltered  Elizabeth. 

"  Brown's  such  an  uncommon  name,"  he  said ; 
"  my  aunt  spells  hers  with  an  E." 

^'  Oh  !  with  an  E  ?  Yes,  of  course.  I  spell 
my  name  with  an  E  too,  only  it's  at  the  wrong 
end." 

Elizabeth  began  to  laugh,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment to  cry  helplessly. 

"  Oh,  Elizabeth !  and  you  looked  in  the  visit- 


296  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

ors'  list  and — "  He  caught  her  in  his  arms 
there  in  the  street.  "  No ;  you  can't  get  away. 
I'm  wiser  than  I  was  three  years  ago.  I  shall 
never  let  you  go  any  more,  my  dear." 

The  girl  from  the  sixth  looked  quite  resent- 
fully at  the  two  faces  that  met  her  at  the  sta- 
tion. It  seemed  hardly  natural  or  correct  for 
a  classical  mistress  to  look  so  happy. 

Elizabeth's  lover  schemed  for  and  got  a  good- 
night word  with  her  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
by  the  table  where  the  beautiful  brass  candle- 
sticks lay  waiting  in  shining  rows. 

"  Sleep  well,  you  poor,  tired  little  person," 
he  said,  as  he  lighted  the  candle ;  "  such  little 
feet,  such  wicked  little  shoes,  such  a  long,  long, 
long  walk." 

"You  must  be  tired,  too,"  she  said. 

"  Tired  ?  with  eleven  miles,  and  your  hand 
against  my  heart  for  eight  of  them  ?  I  shall 
remember  that  walk  when  we're  two  happy  old 
people  nodding  across  our  own  hearthrug  at 
each  other." 

So  he  had  felt  it  too ;  and  if  he  had  been 
married,  how  wicked  it  would  have  been !  But 
he  was  not  married  —  yet. 


WITH   AN   E  297 

"  I  am  not  very,  very  tired,  really,"  she  said. 
"  You  see,  it  was  my  hand  against  —  I  mean 
your  arm  was  a  great  help  — " 

"  It  was  your  hand,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  you 
darling  !  " 

It  v^as  her  hand,  too,  that  v^as  kissed  there, 
beside  the  candlesticks,  under  the  very  eyes  of 
the  chambermaid  and  two  acid  English  tourists. 


^ 


UNDER   THE   NEW   MOON 

THE  white  crescent  of  the  little  new  moon 
blinked  at  us  through  the  yew  boughs.  As 
you  walk  up  the  churchyard  you  see  thirteen 
yews  on  each  side  of  you,  and  yet,  if  you  count 
them  up,  they  make  twenty-seven,  and  it  has 
been  pointed  out  to  me  that  neither  numerical 
fact  can  be  without  occult  significance.  The 
jugglery  in  numbers  is  done  by  the  seventh  yew 
on  the  left,  which  hides  a  shrinking  sister  in  the 
amplitude  of  its  shadow. 

The  midsummer  day  was  dying  in  a  golden 
haze.  Amid  the  gathering  shadows  of  the 
churchyard  her  gown  gleamed  white,  ghostlike. 

"  Oh,  there's  the  new  moon,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  so  glad.  Take  your  hat  off  to  her  and  turn 
the  money  in  your  pocket,  and  you  will  get 
whatever  you  wish  for,  and  be  rich  as  well." 

I  obeyed  with  a  smile,  half  of  whose  meaning 
she  answered. 

299 


300  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

"  No,"  she  said, "  I  am  not  really  superstitious ; 
I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  the  money  is  any  good, 
or  the  hat,  but  of  course  everyone  knows  it's 
unlucky  to  see  it  through  glass." 

"  Seen  through  glass,"  I  began,  "  a  hat  presents 
a  gloss  which  on  closer  inspection — " 

"  No,  no,  not  a  hat,  the  moon,  of  course.  And 
you  might  as  well  pretend  that  it's  lucky  to 
upset  the  salt,  or  to  kill  a  spider,  especially  on  a 
Tuesday,  or  on  your  hat." 

"  Hats,"  I  began  again,  ''  certainly  seem  to  — " 

"  It's  not  the  hat,"  she  answered,  pulling  up 
the  wild  thyme  and  crushing  it  in  her  hands, 
"you  know  very  well  it's  the  spider.  Doesn't 
that  smell  sweet  ?  " 

She  held  out  the  double  handful  of  crushed 
sun-dried  thyme,  and  as  I  bent  my  face  over  the 
cup  made  by  her  two  curved  hands,  I  was  con- 
strained to  admit  that  the  fragrance  was 
delicious. 

"  Intoxicating  even,"  I  added. 

"  Not  that.  White  lilies  intoxicate  you,  so 
does  mock-orange ;  and  white  may  too,  only  it's 
unlucky  to  bring  it  into  the  house." 

I  smiled  again. 


UNDER   THE   NEW   MOON  301 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  call  it  super- 
stitious to  believe  in  facts,"  she  said.  "  My 
cousin's  husband's  sister  brought  some  may  into 
her  house  last  year,  and  her  uncle  died  within 
the  month." 

"My  husband's  uncle's  sister's  niece 
Was  saved  from  them  by  the  police. 
She  says  so,  so  I  know  it's  true  —  " 

I  had  got  thus  far  in  my  quotation  when  she 
interrupted  me. 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you're  going  to  sneer ! "  she 
said,  and  added  that  it  was  getting  late,  and 
that  she  must  go  home. 

"  Not  yet,"  I  pleaded.  "  See  how  pretty 
everything  is.  The  sky  all  pink,  and  the  red 
sunset  between  the  yews,  and  that  good  little 
moon.  And  how  black  the  shadows  are  under 
the  buttresses.  Don't  go  home  —  already  they 
will  have  lighted  the  yellow  shaded  lamps  in 
your  drawing-room.  Your  sister  will  be  sitting 
down  to  the  piano.  Your  mother  is  trying  to 
match  her  silks.  Your  brother  has  got  out  the 
chess  board.  Someone  is  drawing  the  curtains. 
The  day  is  over  for  them,  but  for  us,  here,  there 
is  a  little  bit  of  it  left." 


302  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

We  were  sitting  on  the  lowest  step  of  a  high, 
square  tomb,  moss-grown  and  lichen-covered. 
The  yellow  lichens  had  almost  effaced  the  long 
list  of  the  virtues  of  the  man  on  whose  breast 
this  stone  had  lain,  as  itself  in  round  capitals 
protested,  since  the  year  of  grace  1703.  The 
sharp-leafed  ivy  grew  thickly  over  one  side  of 
it,  and  the  long,  uncut  grass  came  up  between 
the  cracks  of  its  stone  steps. 

"  It's  all  very  well,"  she  said  severely. 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  I  implored.  "  How  can 
you  be  angry  when  the  bats  are  flying  black 
against  the  rose  sky,  when  the  owl  is  waking 
up  —  his  is  a  soft,  fluffy  awakening  —  and  won- 
dering if  it's  breakfast  time  ?  " 

"  I  won't  be  angry,"  she  said.  "  Besides  the 
owl,  it's  disrespectful  to  the  dear,  sleepy,  dead 
people  to  be  angry  in  a  churchyard.  But  if  I 
were  really  superstitious,  you  know,  I  should 
be  afraid  to  come  here  at  night." 

"  At  the  end  of  the  day,"  I  corrected.  "  It 
is  not  night  yet.  Tell  me  before  the  night 
comes  all  the  wonderful  things  you  believe. 
Recite  your  credo!''* 

"  Don't  be  flippant.     I  don't  suppose  I  believe 


UNDER  THE   NEW   MOON  303 

more  unlikely  things  than  you  do.  You  believe 
in  algebra  and  Euclid  and  log  —  what's-his- 
names.     Now  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  all  that." 

"  We  have  it  on  the  best  authority  that  by 
getting  up  early  you  can  believe  six  impossible 
things  before  breakfast." 

"  But  they're  not  impossible.  Don't  you  see 
that's  just  it  ?  The  things  I  like  to  believe  are 
the  very  things  that  might  be  true.  And  they're 
relics  of  a  prettier  time  than  ours,  a  time  when 
people  believed  in  ghosts  and  fairies  and  witches 
and  the  devil  —  oh,  yes !  and  in  God  and  His 
angels,  too.  Now  the  times  are  bound  in  yellow 
brick,  and  we  believe  in  nothing  but  .  .  .  Euclid 
and  —  and  company  prospectuses  and  patent 
medicines." 

When  she  is  a  little  angry  she  is  very  charm- 
ing, but  it  was  too  dark  for  me  to  see  her  face. 

"  Then,"  I  asked,  "  it  is  merely  the  literary 
sense  that  leads  you  to  make  the  Holy  Sign 
when  you  find  two  knives  crossed  on  your  table, 
or  to  knock  under  the  table  and  cry  "  Unberu- 
fen '  when  you  have  provoked  the  Powers  with 
some  kind  word  of  the  destiny  they  have  sent 
you  ?  " 


304  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  I  don't,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  talk  foreign 
languages." 

"  You  say,  '  unbecalled  for,'  I  know,  but  this 
is  mere  subterfuge.  Is  it  the  literary  sense  that 
leads  you  to  treasure  farthings,  to  refuse  to  give 
pins,  to  object  to  a  dinner  party  of  thirteen,  to 
fear  the  plucking  of  the  golden  elder,  to  avoid 
coming  back  to  the  house  when  once  you've 
started,  even  if  you've  forgotten  your  prayer- 
book  or  your  umbrella,  to  decline  to  pass  under 
a  ladder  —  " 

"  I  always  go  under  a  ladder,"  she  interrupted, 
ignoring  the  other  counts ;  "  it  only  means  you 
won't  be  married  for  seven  years." 

"  I  never  go  under  ladders.  Tell  me,  is  it  the 
literary  sense  ?  " 

"  Bother  the  literary  sense,"  she  said.  "Bother" 
is  not  a  pretty  word,  but  this  did  not  strike  me 
till  I  came  to  write  it  down.  "  Look,"  she  went 
on,  "  at  the  faint  primrose  tint  over  the  pine 
trees  and  those  last  pink  clouds  high  up  in  the  sky." 

I  could  see  the  outline  of  her  lifted  chin  and 
her  throat  against  the  yew  shadows,  but  I  deter- 
mined to  be  wise.  I  looked  at  the  pine  trees 
and  said  — 


UNDER   THE   NEW   MOON  305 

"  I  want  you  to  instruct  me.  Why  is  it  un- 
lucky to  break  a  looking-glass  ?  and  what  is  the 
counter-charm  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  "  —  there  was  some  awe  in 
her  voice  —  "I  don't  think  there  is  any  counter- 
charm.  If  I  broke  a  looking-glass  I  believe 
I  should  have  to  give  up  believing  in  these 
things  altogether.  It  would  make  me  too  un- 
happy." 

I  was  discreet  enough  to  pass  by  the  admission. 

"  And  why  is  it  unlucky  to  wear  black  at  a 
wedding  ?  And  if  anyone  did  wear  black  at 
your  wedding,  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  tiresome  this  evening,"  she 
said.  "  Why  don't  you  keep  to  the  point  ? 
Nobody  w^as  talking  of  weddings,  and  if  you 
must  wander,  why  not  stray  in  more  amus- 
ing paths?  Why  don't  you  talk  of  something 
interesting  ?  Why  do  you  try  to  be  disagreeable  ? 
If  you  think  I'm  silly  to  believe  all  these  nice 
picturesque  things,  why  don't  you  give  me  your 
solid,  dull,  dry,  scientific  reasons  for  not  believ- 
ing them  ?  " 

"  Your  wish  is  my  law,"  I  responded  with 
alacrity.     "  Superstition,  then,  is  the  result  of  the 


306  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

imperfect  recognition  in  unscientific  ages  of  the 
relations  of  cause  and  effect.  To  persons  unac- 
customed correctly  to  assign  causes,  one  cause 
is  as  likely  as  another  to  produce  a  given  effect. 
Hallucinations  of  the  senses  have  also,  doubt- 
less —  " 

"  And  now  you're  only  dull,"  she  said. 

The  light  had  slowly  faded  while  we  spoke 
till  the  churchyard  was  almost  dark,  the  grass 
was  heavy  with  dew,  and  sadness  had  crept  like 
a  shadow  over  the  quiet  world. 

"  I  am  sorry.  Everything  I  say  is  wrong 
to-night.  I  was  born  under  an  unlucky  star. 
Forgive  me." 

"  It  was  I  who  was  cross,"  she  admitted  at 
once  very  cheerfully,  but,  indeed,  not  without 
some  truth.  "  But  it  doesn't  do  anyone  any 
harm  to  play  at  believing  things ;  honestly,  I'm 
not  sure  whether  I  believe  them  or  not,  but 
they  have  some  colour  about  them  in  an  age 
grown  grey  in  its  hateful  laboratories  and  work- 
shops. I  do  want  to  try  to  tell  you  if  you 
really  want  to  know  about  it.  I  can't  think 
why,  but  if  I  meet  a  flock  of  sheep  I  know  it 
is  lucky,  and  I'm  cheered ;  and  if  a  hare  crosses 


UNDER  THE   NEW  MOON  307 

the  path  I  feel  it  is  unlucky,  and  I'm  sad ;  and 
if  I  see  the  new  moon  through  glass  I'm  posi- 
tively wretched.  But  all  the  same,  I'm  not 
superstitious.  I'm  not  afraid  of  ghosts  or  dead 
people,  or  things  like  that"  —  I'm  not  sure  that 
she  did  not  add,  "  So  there  ! " 

"  Would  you  dare  to  go  to  the  church  door 
at  twelve  at  night  and  knock  three  times  ? "  I 
asked,  with  some  severity. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  stoutly,  though  I  know  she 
quailed,  "  I  would.  Now  you'll  admit  that  I'm 
not  superstitious." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  and  here  I  offer  no  excuse. 
The  devil  entered  into  me,  and  though  I  see 
now  what  a  brute  beast  I  was,  I  cannot  be  sorry. 
"  I  own  that  you  are  not  superstitious.  How 
dark  it  is  growing.  The  ivy  has  broken  the 
stone  away  just  behind  your  head :  there  is 
quite  a  large  hole  in  the  side  of  the  tomb.  No, 
don't  move,  there's  nothing  there.  If  you  were 
superstitious  you  might  fancy,  on  a  still,  dark, 
sweet  evening  like  this,  that  the  dead  man  might 
wake  and  want  to  come  up  out  of  his  coffin. 
He  might  crouch  under  the  stone,  and  then, 
trying  to  come  out,  he  might  very  slowly  reach 


308  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

out  his  dead  fingers  and  touch  your  neck. 
Ah ! " 

The  awakened  wind  had  moved  an  ivy  spray 
to  the  suggested  touch.  She  sprang  up  with  a 
cry,  and  the  next  moment  she  was  clinging 
wildly  to  me,  as  I  held  her  in  my  arms. 

"  Don't  cry,  my  dear,  oh,  don't !  Forgive  me, 
it  was  the  ivy." 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"  How  could  you  !  how  could  you  !  " 

And  still  I  held  her  fast,  with  —  as  she  grew 
calmer  —  a  question  in  the  clasp  of  my  arms, 
and,  presently,  on  my  lips. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  forgive  me !  And  is  it  true 
—  do  you  ?  —  do  you  ?  " 

a  Yes  —  no  —  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  No,  no,  not 
through  my  veil,  it  is  so  unlucky ! " 


THE   LOVE   OF   ROMANCE 

SHE  opened  the  window,  at  which  no  light 
shone.  All  the  other  windows  were  darkly 
shuttered.  The  night  was  still :  only  a  faint 
breath  moved  among  the  restless  aspen  leaves. 
The  ivy  round  the  window  whispered  hoarsely 
as  the  casement,  swung  back  too  swiftly,  rested 
against  it.  She  had  a  large  linen  sheet  in  her 
hands.  Without  hurry  and  without  delayings 
she  knotted  one  corner  of  it  to  the  iron  staple 
of  the  window.  She  tied  the  knot  firmly,  and 
further  secured  it  with  string.  She  let  the 
white  bulk  of  the  sheet  fall  between  the  ivy 
and  the  night,  then  she  climbed  on  to  the  win- 
dow-ledge, and  crouched  there  on  her  knees. 
There  was  a  heart-sick  pause  before  she  grasped 
the  long  twist  of  the  sheet  as  it  hung  —  let  her 
knees  slip  from  the  supporting  stone  and  swung 
suddenly,  by  her  hands.     Her  elbows  and  wrists 

309 


310  THE  LITERARY   SENSE 

were  grazed  against  the  rough  edge  of  the  win- 
dow-ledge—  the  sheet  twisted  at  her  weight, 
and  jarred  her  shoulder  heavily  against  the 
house  wall.  Her  arms  seemed  to  be  tearing 
themselves  from  their  sockets.  But  she  clenched 
her  teeth,  felt  with  her  feet  for  the  twisted  ivy 
stems  on  the  side  of  the  house,  found  foothold, 
and  the  moment  of  almost  unbearable  agony 
was  over.  She  went  down,  helped  by  feet  and 
hands,  and  by  ivy  and  sheet,  almost  exactly  as 
she  had  planned  to  do.  She  had  not  known  it 
would  hurt  so  much  —  that  was  all.  Her  feet 
felt  the  soft  mould  of  the  border :  a  stout  gera- 
nium snapped  under  her  tread.  She  crept  round 
the  house,  in  the  house's  shadow  —  found  the 
gardener's  ladder  —  and  so  on  to  the  high  brick 
wall.  From  this  she  dropped,  deftly  enough, 
into  the  suburban  lane :  dropped,  too,  into  the 
arms  of  a  man  who  was  waiting  there.  She 
hid  her  face  in  his  neck,  trembling,  and  said, 
"  Oh,  Harry  —  I  wish  I  hadn't !  "  Then  she 
began  to  cry  helplessly.  The  man,  receiving  her 
embrace  with  what  seemed  in  the  circumstances 
a  singularly  moderated  enthusiasm,  led  her  with 
one  arm  still  lightly  about  her  shoulders  down 


THE   LOVE   OF   ROMANCE  311 

the  lane :  at  the  corner  he  stood  still,  and  said 
in  a  low  voice  — 

"  Hush  —  stop  crying  at  once  !  I've  something 
to  say  to  you." 

She  tore  herself  from  his  arm,  and  gasped. 

«  It's  not  Harry,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  how  dare 
you  ! "  She  had  been  brave  till  she  had  dropped 
into  his  arms.  Then  the  need  for  bravery  had 
seemed  over.  Now  her  tears  were  dried  swiftly 
and  suddenly  by  the  blaze  of  anger  and  courage 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  be  unreasonable,"  he  said,  and  even  at 
that  moment  of  disappointment  and  rage  his  voice 
pleased  her.  "  I  had  to  get  you  away  somehow. 
I  couldn't  risk  an  explanation  right  under  your 
aunt's  windows.  Harry's  sprained  his  knee  — 
cricket.     He  couldn't  come." 

A  sharp  resentment  stirred  in  her  against  the 
lover  who  could  play  cricket  on  the  very  day  of 
an  elopement. 

"  He  told  you  to  come  ?  Oh,  how  could  he 
betray  me ! " 

"  My  dear  girl,  what  was  he  to  do  ?  He 
couldn't  leave  you  to  wait  out  here  alone  —  per- 
haps for  hours." 


312  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  I  shouldn't  have  waited  long,"  she  said 
sharply ;  "  you  came  to  tell  me :  now  you've 
told  me  —  you'd  better  go." 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  with  gentle  calm,  "  I  do 
wish  you'd  try  not  to  be  quite  so  silly.  I'm 
Harry's  doctor  —  and  a  middle-aged  man.  Let 
me  help  you.  There  must  be  some  better  way 
out  of  your  troubles  than  a  midnight  flight  and 
a  despairingly  defiant  note  on  the  pin-cushion." 

"  I  didn't,"  she  said.  "  I  put  it  on  the  mantel- 
piece. Please  go.  I  decline  to  discuss  anything 
with  you." 

"  Ah,  don't !  "  he  said  ;  "  I  knew  you  must  be 
a  very  romantic  person,  or  you  wouldn't  be  here  ; 
and  I  knew  you  must  be  rather  sill  —  well,  rather 
young,  or  you  wouldn't  have  fallen  in  love  with 
Harry.  But  I  did  not  think,  after  the  brave  and 
practical  manner  in  which  you  kept  your  ap- 
pointment, I  did  not  think  that  you'd  try  to  be- 
have like  the  heroine  of  a  family  novelette. 
Come,  sit  down  on  this  heap  of  stones  —  there's 
nobody  about.  There's  a  light  in  your  house 
now.  You  can't  go  back  yet.  Here,  let  me  put 
my  Inverness  round  you.  Keep  it  up  round 
your  chin,  and   then  if   anyone    sees    you    they 


THE   LOVE   OF   ROMANCE  313 

won't  know  who  you  are.  I  can't  leave  you 
alone  here.  You  know  what  a  lot  of  robberies 
there  have  been  in  the  neighbourhood  lately ; 
there  may  be  rough  characters  about.  Come 
now,  let's  think  what's  to  be  done.  You  know 
you  can't  get  back  unless  I  help  you." 

''  I  don't  want  you  to  help  me ;  and  I  won't 
go  back,"  she  said. 

But  she  sat  down  and  pulled  the  cloak  up 
round  her  face. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  as  I  understand  the  case  — 
it's  this.  You  live  rather  a  dull  life  with  two 
tyrannical  aunts  —  and  the  passion  for  ro- 
mance .  .  ." 

"  They're  not  tyrannical  —  only  one's  always 
ill  and  the  other's  always  nursing  her.  She 
makes  her  get  up  and  read  to  her  in  the  night. 
That's  her  light  3^ou  saw  — " 

"  Well,  I  pass  the  aunts.  Anyhow,  you  met 
Harry  —  somehow  —  " 

"  It  was  at  the  Choral  Society.  And  then 
they  stopped  my  going  —  because  he  walked 
home  with  me  one  wet  night." 

"  And  you  have  never  seen  each  other  since  ?  " 

"  Of  course  we  have." 


314  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  And  communicated  by  some  means  more 
romantic  than  the  post  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  romantic.     It  was  tennis-balls." 

"  Tennis-balls  ?  " 

"  You  cut  a  slit  and  squeeze  it  and  put  a  note 
in,  and  it  shuts  up  and  no  one  notices  it.  It 
wasn't  romantic  at  all.  And  I  don't  know  why 
I  should  tell  you  anything  about  it." 

"And  then,  I  suppose,  there  were  glances  in 
church,  and  stolen  meetings  in  the  passionate 
hush  of  the  rose-scented  garden." 

"  There's  nothing  in  the  garden  but  geraniums," 
she  said,  "  and  we  always  talked  over  the  wall  — 
he  used  to  stand  on  their  chicken  house,  and  I 
used  to  turn  our  dog  kennel  up  on  end  and  stand 
on  that.  You  have  no  right  to  know  anything 
about  it,  but  it  was  not  in  the  least  romantic." 

"No — that  sees  itself!  May  I  ask  whether 
it  was  you  or  he  who  proposed  this  elopement  ?  " 

"  Oh,  how  dave  you  !  "  she  said,  jumping  up  ; 
"you  have  no  right  to  insult  me  like  this." 

He  caught  her  wrist.  "  Sit  down,  you  little 
firebrand,"  he  said.  "  I  gather  that  he  proposed 
it.  You,  at  any  rate,  consented,  no  doubt  after 
the  regulation  amount  of  proper  scruples.     It's 


THE   LOVE   OF   ROMANCE  315 

all  very  charming  and  idyllic  and  —  what  are 
you  crying  for  ?  Your  lost  hopes  of  a  happy  life 
with  a  boy  you  know  nothing  of,  a  boy  you've 
hardly  seen,  a  boy  you've  never  talked  to  about 
anything  but  love's  young  dream  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  crying,"  she  said  passionately,  turn- 
ing her  streaming  eyes  on  him,  "you  know  I'm 
not  —  or  if  I  am,  it's  only  with  rage.  You  may 
be  a  doctor  —  though  I  don't  believe  you  are  — 
but  you're  not  a  gentleman.  Not  anything  like 
one ! " 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  said  ;  "  a  gentleman  would 
not  make  conditions.  I'm  going  to  make  one. 
You  can't  go  to  Harry,  because  his  Mother  would 
be  seriously  annoyed  if  you  did ;  and  so,  believe 
me,  would  he  —  though  you  don't  think  it.  You 
can  get  up  and  leave  me,  and  go  '  away  into  the 
night,'  like  a  heroine  of  fiction  —  but  you  can't 
keep  on  going  away  into  the  night  for  ever  and 
ever.  You  must  have  food  and  clothes  and  lodg- 
ing. And  the  sun  rises  every  day.  You  must 
just  quietly  and  dully  go  home  again.  And  you 
can't  do  it  without  me.  And  I'll  help  you  if 
you'll  promise  not  to  see  Harry,  or  write  to  him 
for  a  year." 


316  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"Hell  see  me.  He'll  write  to  me,"  she  said 
with  proud  triumph. 

"  I  think  not.  I  exacted  the  promise  from 
him  as  a  condition  of  my  coming  to  meet 
you." 

"  And  he  promised  ?  " 

"  Evidently." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  She  broke  it  with 
a  voice  of  concentrated  fury. 

"  If  he  doesn't  mind,  /  don't,"  she  said.  "  I'll 
promise.  Now  let  me  go  back.  I  wish  you 
hadn't  come  —  I  wish  I  was  dead." 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  don't  be  so  angry  with  me. 
I've  done  what  I  could  for  you  both." 

"  On  conditions  ! " 

"You  must  see  that  they  are  good,  or  you 
wouldn't  have  accepted  them  so  soon.  I  thought 
it  would  have  taken  me  at  least  an  hour  to  get 
you  to  consent.  But  no  —  ten  minutes  of  earnest 
reflection  are  enough  to  settle  the  luckless  Harry's 
little  hash.  You're  quite  right  —  he  doesn't  de- 
serve more  !  I  am  pleased  with  myself,  I  own. 
I  must  have  a  very  convincing  manner." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried  passionately,  "  I  daresay  you 
think  you've  been  very  clever.     But  I  wish  you 


THE   LOVE   OF   ROMANCE  317 

knew  what  I  think  of  you.  And  I'd  tell  you  for 
twopence." 

"  I'm  a  poor  man,  gentle  lady  —  won't  you 
tell  me  for  love  ? "  His  voice  was  soft  and 
pleading  beneath  the  laugh  that  stung  her. 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you  —  for  nothing,"  she  cried. 
'<■  You're  a  brute,  and  a  hateful,  interfering,  dis- 
agreeable, impertinent  old  thing,  and  I  only  hope 
you'll  have  someone  be  as  horrid  to  you  as 
you've  been  to  me,  that's  all ! " 

"  I  think  I've  had  that  already  —  quite  as 
horrid,"  he  said  grimly.  ''  This  is  not  the  mo- 
ment for  compliments  —  but  you  have  great 
powers.  You  are  brave,  and  I  never  met  any- 
one who  could  be  more  '  horrid,'  as  you  call  it, 
in  smaller  compass,  all  with  one  little  tiny 
adjective.  My  felicitations.  You  are  clever. 
Come  —  don't  be  angry  any  more  —  I  had  to 
do  it  —  you'll  understand  some  day." 

"  You  w^ouldn't  like  it  yourself,"  she  said, 
softening  to  something  in  his  voice. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  liked  it  at  your  age,"  he 
said  ;  "  sixteen  —  fifteen  —  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  nineteen  next  birthday,"  she  said  with 
dignity. 


318  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

"  And  the  date  ?  " 

"The  fifteenth  of  June  —  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean  by  asking  me." 

"  And  to-day's  the  first  of  July,"  he  said,  and 
sighed.  "  Well,  well !  —  if  your  Highness  will 
allow  me,  I'll  go  and  see  whether  your  aunt's 
light  is  out,  and  if  it  is,  we'll  attempt  the  re- 
entrance." 

He  went.  She  shivered,  waiting  for  what  felt 
like  hours.  And  the  resentment  against  her  aunts 
grew  faint  in  the  light  of  her  resentment  against 
her  lover's  messenger,  and  this,  in  its  turn,  was 
outshone  by  her  anger  against  her  lover.  He 
had  played  cricket.  He  had  risked  his  life  — 
on  the  very  day  whose  evening  should  have 
crowned  that  life  by  giving  her  to  his  arms. 
She  set  her  teeth.  Then  she  yawned  and 
shivered  again.  It  was  an  English  July,  and 
very  cold.  And  the  slow  minutes  crept  past. 
What  a  fool  she  had  been !  Why  had  she  not 
made  a  fight  for  her  liberty  —  for  her  right  to 
see  Harry  if  she  chose  to  see  him  ?  The  aunts 
would  never  have  stood  up  against  a  well- 
planned,  determined,  disagreeable  resistance.  In 
the  light  of  this  doctor's  talk  the  whole  thing 


THE   LOVE   OF   ROMANCE  319 

did  seem  cowardly,  romantic,  and,  worst  of  all, 
insufferably  young.  Well  —  to-morrow  every- 
thing should  change ;  she  would  fight  for  her 
Love,  not  merely  run  away  to  him.  But  the 
promise  ?  Well,  Harry  was  Harry,  and  a  prom- 
ise was  only  a  promise ! 

There  were  footsteps  in  the  lane.  The  man 
was  coming  back  to  her.     She  rose. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said.     "  Come." 

In  silence  they  walked  down  the  lane.  Sud- 
denly he  stopped. 

"  You'll  thank  me  some  day,"  he  said.  "  Why 
should  you  throw  yourself  away  on  Harry  ? 
You're  worth  fifty  of  him.  And  I  only  wish  I 
had  time  to  explain  this  to  you  thoroughly,  but 
I  haven't ! " 

She,  too,  had  stopped.  Now  she  stamped  her 
foot. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  "  I'm  not  going  to 
promise  anything  at  all.  You  needn't  help  me 
if  you  don't  want  to  —  but  I  take  back  that 
promise.  Go  !  —  do  what  you  like !  I  mean 
to  stick  to  Harry  —  and  I'll  write  and  tell  him 
so  to-night.     So  there  !  " 

He  clapped  his  hands  very  softly.     "  Bravo  ! " 


320  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

he  said  ;  "  that's  the  right  spirit.  Plucky  child  ! 
Any  other  girl  would  have  broken  the  promise 
without  a  word  to  me.  Harry's  luckier  even 
than  I  thought.  I'll  help  you,  little  champion ! 
Come  on." 

He  helped  her  over  the  wall ;  carried  the 
ladder  to  her  window,  and  steadied  it  while 
she  mounted  it.  When  she  had  climbed  over  the 
window-ledge  she  turned  and  leaned  out  of  the 
window,  to  see  him  slowly  mounting  the  ladder. 
He  threw  his  head  back  with  a  quick  gesture 
that  meant  "  I  have  something  more  to  say  — 
lean  out ! " 

She  leaned  out.  His  face  was  on  a  level 
with  hers. 

"  You've  slept  soundly  all  night  —  don't  forget 
that  —  it's  important,"  he  whispered,  "and  — 
you  needn't  tell  Harry  —  one-sided  things  are  so 
trivial,  but  I  can't  help  it.  /  have  the  passion 
for  romance  too  !  " 

With  that  he  caught  her  neck  in  the  curve  of 
his  arm,  and  kissed  her  lightly  but  fervently. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  he  said  ;  "  thank  you.  so  much 
for  a  very  pleasant  evening ! "  He  dropped 
from  the  ladder  and  was  gone.       She  drew  her 


THE   LOVE   OF   ROMANCE  321 

curtain  with  angry  suddenness.  Then  she  lighted 
candles  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  looking- 
glass.  She  thought  she  had  never  looked  so 
pretty.  And  she  was  right.  Then  she  went  to 
bed,  and  slept  like  a  tired  baby. 

4f(  *  *  ^  ^  * 

Next  morning  the  suburb  was  electrified  by 
the  discovery,  made  by  the  nursing  aunt,  that 
all  the  silver  and  jewels  and  valuables  from  the 
safe  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  had  vanished. 

"The  villains  must  have  come  through  your 
room,  child,"  she  said  to  Harry's  sweetheart ; 
"  the  ladder  proves  that.  Slept  sound  all  night, 
did  you  ?  Well,  that  was  a  mercy  !  They 
might  have  murdered  you  in  your  bed  if  you'd 
happened  to  be  awake.  You  ought  to  be 
humbly  thankful  when  you  think  of  what  might 
have  happened." 

The  girl  did  not  think  very  much  of  what 
might  have  happened.  What  had  happened 
gave  her  quite  food  enough  for  reflection. 
Especially  when  to  her  side  of  the  night's  ad- 
ventures was  added  the  tale  of  Harry's. 

He  had  not  played  cricket,  he  had  not  hurt 
his  knee,  he  had  merely  confided  in  his  father's 


322  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

valet,  and  had  given  that  unprincipled  villain 
a  five-pound  note  to  be  at  the  Cross  Roads  —  in 
the  orthodox  style  —  with  a  cab  for  the  flight, 
a  post-chaise  being,  alas !  out  of  date.  Instead 
of  doing  this,  the  valet,  with  a  confederate,  had 
gagged  and  bound  young  Harry,  and  set  him  in 
a  convenient  corner  against  the  local  waterworks 
to  await  events. 

"  I  never  would  have  believed  it  of  him," 
added  Harry,  in  an  agitated  india-rubber-ball 
note,  "  he  always  seemed  such  a  superior  person, 
you'd  have  thought  he  was  a  gentleman  if  you'd 
met  him  in  any  other  position." 

"  I  should.  I  did,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  And, 
oh,  how  frightfully  clever !  And  the  way  he 
talked !  And  all  the  time  he  was  only  keeping 
me  out  of  the  way  while  they  stole  the  silver 
and  things.  I  wish  he  hadn't  taken  the  ruby 
necklace  :  it  does  suit  me  so.  And  what  nerve  ! 
He  actually  talked  about  the  robberies  in  the 
neighbourhood.  He  must  have  done  them  all. 
Oh,  what  a  pity !  But  he  was  a  dear.  And 
how  awfully  wicked  he  was,  too  —  but  I'll  never 
tell  Harry ! " 

She  never  has. 


THE   LOVE   OF   EOMANCE  323 

Curiously  enough,  her  Burglar  Valet  Hero  was 
not  caught,  though  the  police  most  intelligently 
traced  his  career,  from  his  being  sent  down  from 
Oxford  to  his  last  best  burglary. 

She  was  married  to  Harry,  with  the  complete 
consent  of  everyone  concerned,  for  Harry  had 
money,  and  so  had  she,  and  there  had  never  been 
the  slightest  need  for  an  elopement,  save  in 
youth's  perennial  passion  for  romance.  It  was 
on  her  birthday  that  she  received  a  registered 
postal  packet.  It  had  a  good  many  queer  post- 
marks on  it,  and  the  stamps  were  those  of  a 
South  American  republic.  It  was  addressed  to 
her  by  her  new  name,  which  was  as  good  as 
new  still.  It  came  at  breakfast-time,  and  it 
contained  the  ruby  necklace,  several  gold  rings, 
and  a  diamond  brooch.  All  were  the  property 
of  her  late  aunts.  Also  there  was  an  india- 
rubber  ball,  and  in  it  a  letter. 

"  Here  is  a  birthday  present  for  you,"  it  said. 
"  Try  to  forgive  me.  Some  temptations  are 
absolutely  irresistible.  That  one  was.  And  it 
was  worth  it.  It  rounded  off  the  whole  thing 
so  perfectly.  That  last  indiscretion  of  mine 
nearly  ruined  everything.     There  was  a  police- 


324  THE   LITERARY   SENSE 

man  in  the  lane.  I  only  escaped  by  the  merest 
fluke.  But  even  then  it  would  have  been  v^orth 
it.  At  least,  I  should  like  you  to  believe  that  I 
think  so." 

"  His  last  indiscretion,"  said  Harry,  who  saw 
the  note  but  not  the  india-rubber  ball,  "  that 
means  stealing  your  aunts'  things,  of  course, 
unless  it  was  dumping  me  down  by  the  water- 
works, but,  of  course,  that  wasn't  the  last  one. 
But  worth  it  ?  Why,  he'd  have  had  seven  years 
if  they'd  caught  him  —  worth  it  ?  He  must  have 
a  passion  for  burglary." 

She  did  not  explain  to  Harry,  because  he 
would  never  have  understood.  But  the  burglar 
would  have  found  it  quite  easy  to  understand 
that  or  anything.  She  was  so  shocked  to  find 
herself  thinking  this  that  she  went  over  to  Harry 
and  kissed  him  with  more  affection  even  than 
usual. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  wonder  you're 
pleased  to  get  something  back  out  of  all  those 
things.     I  quite  understand." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  she.  "I  know.  You  always 
do!" 


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